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et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
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1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

'ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2 


1.0 


1.25 


IIM 

m 
m 

140 


1.4 


I  2.2 
2.0 

1.8 


1.6 


^  APPLIED  IIWIGE 

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THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


TTIE  MACMILLAN  C0MPA::Y 

KIW  VOHK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limitco 

LONDON  •   BOMPAV  •    CALCUn* 
MELBOUIINB 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  Lm 

TOHONTO 


-  u 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF 
THE  NORTH 


BY 

RICHARD  AUMERLE  MAHER 

Author  of 
"The  Heart  of  a  Man,"  etc. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright  1916 
By  the   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 


Set    \\\ 


.nd 


electrotypc.l.      Published,    March,    1916. 


930D33 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  White  Horse  Chaplain     ....  3 

II    The  Choir  Unseen 35 

III  Glow  of  Dawn 64 

IV  The  Answer 103 

V    Mon  Pere  Je  Me  'Cuse 137 

VI  The  Business  of  the  Shepherd      .     .     .174 

VII  The  Inner  Citadel 210 

VIII  Seigneur  Dieu,  Whither  Go  I?      .     .     .  243 

IX  The  Coming  of  the  Shepherd    ....  277 

X  That  They  Be  not  Afraid 311 


-(/• 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


I 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF 
THE  NORTH 


THE   WHITE    HORSE    CHAPLAIN 

The  Bishop  of  Alden  was  practising  his  French 
upon  Arsene  LaComb.  It  was  undoubtedly  good 
French,  this  of  M'sieur  the  Bishop,  Arsene  as- 
sured himself.  It  must  be.  But  it  certainly  was 
not  any  kind  of  French  that  had  ever  been  spoken 
by  the  folks  back  in  Three  Rivers. 

Still,  what  did  it  matter?  If  Arsene  could  not 
understand  all  that  the  Bishop  said,  it  was  equally 
certain  that  the  Bishop  could  not  understand  all 
that  Arsene  said.  And  truly  the  Bishop  was  a 
cheery  companion  for  the  long  road.  He  took 
his  upsets  into  six  feet  of  Adirondack  snow,  as 
man  and  Bishop  must  when  the  drifts  are  soft 
and  the  road  is  uncertain. 

In  the  purple  dawn  they  had  left  Lowville  and 
the  railroad  behind  and  had  headed  into  the  hills. 
For  thirty  miles,  with  only  one  stop  for  a  bite 
of  lunch  and  a  change  of  ponies,  they  had  pounded 
along  up  the  half-broken,  logging  roads.     Now 


kit 


4      THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

they  were  in  the  high  country  and  there  were  no 
roads. 

Arsene  had  come  this  way  yesterday.  But  a 
drifting  storm  had  followed  him  down  from  Lit- 
tle Tupper,  covering  the  road  that  he  had  made 
and  leaving  no  trace  of  the  way.  He  had  stopped 
driving  and  held  only  a  steady,  even  rein  to  keep 
his  ponies  from  stumbling,  while  he  let  the  tough, 
willing  little  Canadian  blacks  pick  their  own  road. 

Twice  in  the  last  hour  the  Bishop  and  Arsene 
had  been  tossed  off  the  single  bobsled  out  into 
the  drifts.  It  was  back-breaking  work,  sitting  all 
day  long  on  the  swaying  bumper,  with  no  back 
rest,  feet  braced  stiffly  against  the  draw  bar  in 
front  to  keep  the  dizzy  balance.  But  it  was  the 
only  way  that  this  trip  could  be  made. 

The  Bishop  knew  that  he  should  not  have  let 
the  confirmation  in  French  Village  on  Little  Tup- 
per go  to  this  late  date  in  the  season.  He  had 
arranged  to  come  a  month  before.  But  Father 
Ponfret's  illness  had  put  him  back  at  that  time. 

Now  he  was  worried.  The  early  December 
dark  was  upon  them.  There  was  no  road.  The 
ponies  were  tiring.  And  there  were  yet  twelve 
bad  miles  to  go. 

Still,  things  might  be  worse.  The  cold  was  not 
bad.  He  had  the  bulkier  of  his  vestments  and  re- 
galia in  his  stout  leather  bag  lashed  firmly  to  the 
sled.  They  could  take  no  harm.  The  holy  oils 
and  the  other  sacred  essentials  were  slung  securely 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN       5 

about  his  body.  And  a  tumble  more  or  less  in 
the  snow  was  a  part  of  the  day's  work.  They 
would  break  their  way  through  somehow. 

So,  with  the  occasional  interruptions,  he  was 
practising  his  amazing  French  upon  Arsene. 

Bishop  Joseph  Winthrop  of  Alden  was  of  old 
Massachusetts  stock.  He  had  learned  the  French 
that  was  taught  at  Harvard  in  the  fifties.  After- 
wards, after  his  conversion  to  the  Catholic 
Church,  he  had  gone  to  Louvain  for  his  seminary 
studies.  There  he  had  heard  French  of  another 
kind.  But  to  the  day  he  died  he  spoke  his 
French  just  as  it  was  written  in  the  book,  and  with 
an  aggressive  New  England  accent. 

He  must  speak  French  to  the  children  in  French 
Village  to-morrow,  not  because  the  children  would 
understand,  but  because  it  would  please  Father 
Ponfret  and  the  parents. 

They  were  struggling  around  the  shoulder  of 
Lansing  Mountain  and  the  Bishop  was  rounding 
out  an  elegant  period  to  the  bewildered  admira- 
tion of  Arsene,  when  the  latter  broke  in  with  a 
sharp: 

*'  Jomp,  M'sieur  I'Eveque,  jomp!  " 

The  Bishop  jumped  —  or  was  thrown  —  ten 
feet  into  a  snow-bank. 

While  he  gathered  himself  out  of  the  snow  and 
felt  carefully  his  bulging  breast  pockets  to  make 
sure  that  everything  was  safe,  he  saw  what  had 
happened. 


4 

in 

if 


if 


6      THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  star-faced  pony  on  the  near  side  had 
slipped  off  the  tiail  and  rolled  down  a  little  bank, 
dragging  the  other  pony  and  Arsene  and  the  sled 
with  him.  It  looked  like  a  bad  jumble  of  pomes, 
man  and  sled  at  the  bottom  of  a  little  gully,  and 
as  the  Bishop  floundered  through  the  snow  to  help 
he  feared  that  it  was  serious. 

Arsene,  his  body  pinned  deep  in  the  snow  un- 
der  the  sled,  his  head  just  clear  of  the  ponies 
heels,  was  talking  wisely  and  craftily  to  them  in 
the  patois  that  they  understood.  He  was  within 
inches  of  having  his  brains  beaten  out  by  the  quiv- 
ering hoofs;  he  could  not,  literally,  move  his  head 
to  save  his  life,  and  he  talked  and  reasoned  with 
them  as  quietly  as  if  he  stood  at  their  heads. 

They  kicked  and  fought  each  other  and  the  sled, 
until  the  influence  of  the  calm  voice  behind  them 
began  to  work  upon  them.  Then  their  own  craft 
came  back  to  them  and  they  remembered  the  many 
bitter  lessons  they  had  gotten  from  kicking  and 
fighting  in  deep  snow.     They  lay  still  and  waited 

for  the  voice  to  come  and  get  them  out  of  this. 
As  the  Bishop  tugged  sturdily  at  the  sled  to 

release  Arsene,  he  remembered  that  he  had  seen 

men  under  fire.     And  he  said  to  himself  that  he 

had  never  seen  a  cooler  or  a  braver  man  than  this 

little  French-Canadian  storekeeper. 

The  little  man  rolled  out  unhurt,  the  snow  had 

been  soft  under  him,  and  lunged  for  the  ponies' 

heads. 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN       7 

"Up,  Maje!  Easee,  Lisette,  eased  Now! 
Ah-al     BienI" 

He  had  them  both  by  their  bridles  and  dragged 
them  skilfully  to  their  feet  and  up  the  bank. 
With  a  lurch  or  two  and  a  scramble  they  were  all 
safe  back  on  the  hard  under-footing  of  the  trail. 

Arsene  now  looked  around  for  the  Bishop. 

"Ba  Golly!  M'sieur  I'Eveque,  dat's  one  fine 
jomp.     You  got  hurt,  you  ?  " 

The  Bishop  declared  that  he  was  not  in  any 
way  the  worse  from  the  tumble,  and  Arsene  turned 
to  his  team.  As  the  Bishop  struggled  back  up 
the  bank,  the  little  mm  looked  up  from  his  in- 
spection of  his  harness  and  said  ruefully : 

''Dat's  bad,  M'sieur  I'Eveque.  She's  gone 
bust." 

He  held  the  frayed  end  of  a  broken  trace  in  his 
hand.     The  trouble  was  quite  evident. 
^^  "What    can    we    do?"    asked    the    Bishop. 
"  Have  you  any  rope  ?  " 

"No.  Dat's  how  I  been  one  big  fool,  me. 
I  lef  new  rope  on  de  sled  las'  night  on  Lowville. 
Dis  morning  she's  gone.     Some  t'ief." 

"  We  must  get  on  somehow,"  said  the  Bishop, 
as  he  unbuckled  part  of  the  lashing  from  his  bag 
and  handed  the  strap  to  Arsene.  "  That  will  hold 
until  we  get  to  the  first  house  where  we  can  get  the 
loan  of  a  trace.  We  can  walk  behind.  We're 
both  stiff  and  cold.  It  will  do  us  good.  Is  it 
far?" 


8      TIIF  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


"  Dat's  Long  Tom  Lansing  in  de  hemlocks, 
'bout  quarter  mile,  maybe."  The  little  man 
looked  up  from  his  work  long  enough  to  point 
out  a  clump  of  hemlocks  that  stood  out  black  and 
sharp  against  the  white  world  around  them.  As 
the  Bishop  looked,  a  light  peeped  out  from  among 
the  trees,  showing  where  life  and  a  home 
fought  their  battle  against  the  desolation  of  the 
hills. 

"  I  donno,"  said  Arsene  speculatively,  as  he  and 
the  Bishop  took  up  their  tramp  behind  the  sled; 
"  Dat  Long  Tom  Lansing;  he  don'  like  Canuck. 
Maybe  he  don'  lend  no  harness,  I  donno." 

'*  Oh,  yes;  he  will  surely,"  answered  the  Bishop 
easily.  "  Nobody  would  refuse  a  bit  of  harness 
in  a  case  like  this." 

It  was  full  dark  when  they  came  to  where 
Tom  Lansing's  cabin  hid  itself  among  the  hem- 
locks. Arsene  did  not  dare  trust  his  team  off  the 
road  where  they  had  footing,  so  the  Bishop 
floundered  his  way  through  the  heavy  snow  to 
find  the  cabin  door. 

It  was  a  rude,  heavy  cabin,  roughly  hewn  out 
of  the  hemlocks  that  had  stood  around  it  and 
belonged  to  a  generation  already  past.  But  it 
was  still  serviceable  and  tight,  and  it  was  a  home. 

The  Bishop  halloed  and  knocked,  but  there  was 
no  response  from  within.  It  was  strange.  For 
there  was  every  sign  of  life  about  the  place. 
After  knocking  a  second  time  without  result,  he 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN      9 

lifted  the  heavy  wooden  latch  and  pushed  quietly 
into  the  cabin. 

A  great  fire  blazed  in  the  fireplace  directly  op- 
posite the  door.  On  the  hearth  stood  a  big  black 
and  white  shepherd  dog.  The  dog  gave  not  the 
slightest  heed  to  the  intruder.  He  stood  rigid,  his 
four  legs  planted  squarely  under  him,  his  whole 
body  quivering  with  fear.  His  nose  was  pointed 
upward  as  though  ready  for  the  howl  to  which 
he  dared  not  give  voice.  His  great  brown  eyes 
rolled  in  an  ecstasy  of  fright  but  seemed  unable 
to  tear  themselves  from  the  side  of  the  room 
where  he  was  looking. 

Along  the  side  of  the  room  ran  a  long,  low 
couch  covered  w'th  soft,  well  worn  hides.  On  it 
lay  a  very  lon^  in,  his  limbs  stretched  out  awk- 
wardly and  unna.urally,  showing  that  he  ^^H  been 
dragged  unconscious  to  where  he  was.  A  ,  ''« 
stood  on  the  low  window  ledge  and  shone  down 
full  into  the  man's  face. 

At  the  head  of  the  couch  knelt  a  young  girl, 
her  arm  supporting  the  man's  head  and  shoulder, 
her  wildly  tossed  hair  falling  down  across  his 
chest. 

She  was  speaking  to  the  man  in  a  voice  low 
and  even,  but  so  tense  that  her  whole  slim  body 
seemed  to  vibrate  with  every  word.  It  was  as 
though  her  very  soul  came  to  the  portals  of  her  lips 
and  shouted  its  message  to  the  man.  The  power 
of  her  voice,  the  breathless,  compelling  strength 


lo    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

of  her  soul  need  seemed  to  hold  everything  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth,  as  she  pleaded  to  the 
man.     The  Bishop  stood  spellbound. 

•'  Come  back,  Daddy  Tom !  Come  back,  My 
Father !  "  she  was  saying  over  and  over.  "  Come 
back,  come  back.  Daddy  Toml  It's  not  true  I 
God  doesn't  want  you !  He  doesn't  want  to  take 
you  from  Ruth !  How  could  He  1  It's  not  never 
true!  A  tree  couldn't  kill  my  Daddy  Toml 
Never,  never  1  Why,  he's  felled  whole  slopes  of 
trees  1     Come  back.  Daddy  Tom !     Come  back  1  " 

For  a  time  which  he  could  not  measure  the 
Bishop  stood  listening  to  the  pleading  of  the  girl's 
voice.  But  in  reality  he  was  not  listening  to  i. 
sound.  The  girl  was  not  merely  speaking.  She 
was  fighting  bitterly  with  death.  She  was  calling 
all  the  forces  of  love  and  life  to  aid  her  in  her 
struggle.  She  was  following  the  soul  of  her 
loved  one  down  to  the  very  door  of  death.  She 
would  pull  him  back  out  of  the  very  clutches  of 
the  unknown. 

And  the  Bishop  found  that  he  was  not  merely 
listening  to  what  the  girl  said.  He  was  going 
down  with  her  into  the  dark  lane.  He  was  echo- 
ing every  word  of  her  pleading.  The  force  of 
her  will  and  her  prayer  swept  him  along  so  that 
with  all  the  power  of  his  heart  and  soul  he  prayed 
for  the  man  to  open  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  girl  stopped.  A  great,  terrible 
fear  seemed  to  grip  and  crush  her,  so  that  she 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     ii 


i 


cowtrcci  and  hid  her  face  against  the  big,  grizzled 
white  head  of  the  man,  and  cried  out  and  sobbed 
in  i error. 

1  he  Bishop  crossed  the  room  softly  and  touched 
the  girl  on  the  head,  saying: 

**  Do  not  give  up  yet,  child.  I  once  had  some 
skill.     Let  me  try." 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  up  blankly  at  him. 
She  did  not  question  who  he  was  or  whence  he 
had  come.  She  turned  again  and  wrapped  her 
arms  jealously  about  the  head  and  shoulders  of 
her  father.  Plainly  she  was  afraid  and  resent- 
ful of  any  interference.  But  the  Bishop  insisted 
gently  and  in  the  end  she  gave  him  place  beside 
her. 

He  had  taken  off  his  cap  and  overcoat  and  he 
knelt  quickly  to  listen  at  the  man's  breast. 

Life  ran  very  low  in  the  long,  bony  frame;  but 
there  was  life,  certainly.  While  the  Bishop  fum- 
bled through  the  man's  pockets  for  the  knife  that 
he  was  sure  he  would  find,  he  questioned  the  girl 
quietly. 

"  It  was  just  a  little  while  ago,"  she  answered, 
in  short,  frightened  sentences.  "  My  dog  came 
yelping  down  from  the  mountain  where  Father 
had  been  all  day.  He  was  cutting  timber.  I  ran 
up  there.  He  was  pinned  down  under  a  limb. 
I  thought  he  was  dead,  but  he  spoke  to  me  and 
told  me  where  to  cut  the  limb.  I  chopped  it  away 
with  his  axe.     But  it  must  be  I   hurt  him;  he 


12     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

fainted.  I  can't  make  him  speak.  I  cut  boughs 
and  made  a  sledge  and  dragged  him  down  here. 
But  I  can't  make  him  speak.  Is  he? —  Is 
he? —     Tell  me,"  she  appealed. 

The  Bishop  was  cutting  skilfully  at  the  arm  and 
shoulder  of  the  man's  jacket  and  shirt. 

"You  were  all  alone,  child?"  he  said. 
"  Where  could  you  get  the  strength  for  all  this? 
My  driver  is  out  on  the  road,"  he  continued,  as 
he  worked  on.  "  Call  him  and  send  him  for  the 
nearest  help." 

The  girl  rose  and  with  a  lingering,  heart-break- 
ing look  back  at  the  man  on  the  couch,  went  out 
into  the  snow. 

The  Bishop  worked  away  deftly  and  steadily. 
The  man's  shoulder  was  crushed  hopelessly, 
but  there  was  nothing  there  to  constitute  a  fatal 
injury.  It  was  only  when  he  came  to  the  upper 
ribs  that  he  saw  the  real  extent  of  the  damage. 
Several  of  them  were  caved  in  frightfully,  and  it 
seemed  certain  that  one  or  two  of  them  must  have 
been  shattered  and  the  splinters  driven  Into  the 
lung  on  that  side. 

The  cold  had  driven  back  the  blood,  so  that 
the  wounds  had  bled  outwardly  very  little.  The 
Bishop  moved  the  crushed  shoulder  a  little,  and 
something  black  showed  out  of  a  torn  muscle  under 
the  scapula. 

He  probed  tenderly,  and  the  thing  came  out  in 
his  hand.     It  was  a  little  black  ball  of  steel. 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN 


13 


While  the  Bishop  stood  there  wondering  at  the 
thing  in  his  hand,  a  long  tremor  ran  through  the 
body  on  the  couch.  The  man  stirred  ever  so 
slightly.  A  gasping  moan  of  pain  escaped  from 
his  lips.  His  eyes  opened  and  fixed  themselves 
searchingly  upon  the  Bishop.  The  Bishop 
thought  it  best  not  to  speak,  but  to  give  the  man 
time  to  come  back  naturally  to  a  realisation  of 
things. 

While  the  man  stared  eagerly,  disbelievingly, 
and  the  Bishop  stood  holding  the  little  black  ball 
between  thumb  and  fore-finger,  Ruth  Lansing 
came  back  into  the  room. 

Seeing  her  father's  eyes  open,  the  girl  rushed 
across  the  room  and  was  about  to  throw  herself 
down  by  the  side  of  the  couch  when  her  father's 
voice,  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper,  but  audible 
and  clear,  stopped  her. 

"  The  White  Horse  Chaplain !  "  he  said  in  a 
voice  of  slow  wonder.  "  But  I  always  knew  he'd 
come  for  me  sometime.  And  I  suppose  it's 
time." 

The  Bishop  started.  He  had  not  heard  the 
name  for  twenty-five  years. 

The  girl  stopped  by  the  table,  trembling  and 
frightened.  She  had  heard  the  tale  of  the  White 
Horse  Chaplain  many  times.  Her  sense  told  her 
that  her  father  was  delirious  and  raving.  But  he 
spoke  so  calmly  and  so  certainly.  He  seemed  so 
certain  that  the  man  he  saw  was  an  apparition 


ffff* 


14  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

tfiat  she  could  not  think  or  reason  herself  out  of 
her  fright. 

The  Bishop  answered  easily  and  quietly: 

"  Yes,  Lansing,  I  am  the  Chaplain.  But  I  did 
not  think  anybody  remembered  now." 

Tom  Lansing's  eyes  leaped  wide  with  doubt 
and  question.  They  stared  full  at  the  Bishop. 
Then  they  turned  and  saw  the  table  standing  in 
its  right  place;  saw  Ruth  Lansing  standing  by  the 
table;  saw  the  dog  at  the  fireplace.  The  man 
there  was  real! 

Tom  Lansing  made  a  little  convulsive  struggle 
to  rise,  then  fell  back  gasping. 

The  Bishop  put  his  hand  gently  under  the  man's 
head  and  eased  him  to  a  better  position,  saying: 

"  It  was  just  a  chance,  Lansing.  I  was  driv- 
ing past  and  had  broken  a  trace,  and  came  in  to 
borrow  one  from  you.  You  got  a  bad  blow. 
But  your  girl  has  just  sent  my  driver  for  help. 
They  will  get  a  doctor  somewhere.  We  cannot 
tell  anything  until  he  comes.  It  perhaps  is  not  so 
bad  as  It  looks."  But,  even  as  he  spoke,  the 
Bishop  saw  a  drop  of  blood  appear  at  the  corner 
of  the  man's  white  mouth;  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
as  bad  as  the  worst. 

The  man  lay  quiet  for  a  moment,  while  his  eyes 
moved  again  from  the  Bishop  to  the  girl  and  the 
everyday  things  of  the  room. 

It  was  evident  that  his  mind  was  clearing 
sharply.     He  had  rallied  quickly.     But  the  Bishop 


!      i 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     15 

knew  instinctively  that  it  was  the  last,  flashing  rally 
of  the  forces  of  life  —  in  the  face  of  the  on- 
crowding  darkness.  The  shock  and  the  internal 
hemorrhage  were  doing  their  work  fast.  The 
time  was  short. 

Evidently  Tom  Lansing  realised  this,  for,  with 
a  look,  he  called  the  girl  to  him. 

Through  the  seventeen  years  of  her  life,  since 
the  night  when  her  mother  had  laid  her  in  her 
father's  arms  and  died,  Ruth  Lansing  had  hardly 
ever  been  beyond  the  reach  of  her  father's  voice. 
They  had  grown  very  close  together,  these  two. 
They  had  little  need  of  clumsy  words  between 
them. 

As  the  girl  dropped  to  her  knees,  her  eyes,  wild, 
eager,  rebellious,  seared  her  father  with  their  ter- 
ror-stricken, unbelieving  question. 

But  she  quickly  saw  the  stab  of  pain  that  her 
wild  questioning  had  given  him.  She  crushed 
back  a  great,  choking  sob,  and  fought  bravely  with 
herself  until  she  was  able  to  force  into  her  eyes 
a  look  of  understanding  and  great  mothering  ten- 
derness. 

Her  father  sa'v  the  struggle  and  the  look, 
and  blessed  her  for  it  with  his  eyes.  Then  he 
said : 

"  You'll  never  blame  me,  Ruth,  girl,  will  you? 
I  know  I'm  desertin'  you,  little  comrade,  right  in 
the  mornin'  of  your  battle  with  life.  But  you 
won't  be  afraid.     I  know  you  won't." 


f 


i'- 


i6  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  girl  shook  her  head  bravely,  but  it  was 
clear  that  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  ask  this  man  here  to  look  to  you. 
He  came  here  for  a  sign  to  me.  I  see  it.  I  see 
it  plain.  I  will  trust  him  with  your  life.  And  so 
will  you,  little  comrade.  I  —  I'm  droppin'  out. 
He'll  take  you  on. 

"  He  saved  my  life  once.  So  he  gave  you  your 
life.     It's  a  sign,  my  Ruth." 

The  girl  slipped  her  hands  gently  under  his  head 
and  looked  deep  and  long  into  the  glazing  eyes. 

Her  heart  quailed,  for  she  knew  that  she  was 
facing  death  —  lu  J  life  alone. 

Obedient  to  her  father's  look,  she  rose  and 
walked  across  the  room.  She  saw  that  he  had 
something  to  say  to  this  strange  man  and  that  the 
time  was  short. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  inner  room  of  the  cabin 
she  stood,  and  throwing  one  arm  up  against  the 
frame  of  the  door  she  buried  her  face  in  it.  She 
did  not  cry  or  sob.  Later,  there  would  be  plenty 
of  time  for  that. 

The  Bishop,  reading  swiftly,  saw  that  in  an  in- 
stant an  Irrevocable  change  had  come  over  her. 
She  had  knelt  a  frightened,  wondering,  protest- 
ing child.  A  woman,  grown,  with  knowledge  of 
death  and  Its  infinite  certalnt}',  of  life  and  its  in- 
finite chance,  had  risen  from  her  knees. 

As  the  Bishop  leaned  over  him,  Lansing  spoke 
hurriedly: 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     17 


I 


■3 

■•1 


"I  never  knew  your  name,  Chaplain;  or  if  I 
did  I  forgot  it,  and  it  don't  matter. 

"  I'm  dying.  I  don't  need  any  doctor  to  tell 
me.     I'll  be  gone  before  he  gets  here. 

"  You  remember  that  day  at  Fort  Fisher,  when 
Curtis'  men  were  cut  to  pieces  in  the  second  charge 
on  the  trenches.  They  left  me  there,  because  it 
was  every  man  for  himself. 

"  A  ball  in  my  shoulder  and  another  in  my  leg. 
And  you  came  drivin'  mad  across  the  field  on  a 
big,  crazy  white  horse  and  slid  down  beside  me 
where  I  lay.  You  threw  me  across  your  saddle 
and  walked  that  wild  horse  back  into  our  lines. 

"Do  you  remember?  Dying  men  got  up  on 
their  elbows  and  cheered  you.  I  lay  six  weeks  in 
fever,  and  I  never  saw  you  since.  Do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"  I  do,  now,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  Our  troop 
came  back  to  the  Shenandoah,  and  I  never  knew 
what—" 

That  terrible,  unforgettable  day  rolled  back 
upon  him.  He  was  just  a  few  months  ordained. 
He  had  just  been  appointed  chaplain  in  the  Union 
army.  All  unseasoned  and  unschooled  in  the 
ways  and  business  of  a  battlefield,  he  had  found 
himself  that  day  in  the  sand  dunes  before  Fort 
Fisher.  Red,  reeking  carnage  rioted  all  about 
him.  Hail,  fumes,  lightning  and  thunder  of  bat- 
tle rolled  over  him  and  sickened  him.  He  saw 
his  own  Massachusetts  troop  hurl  itself  up  against 


I 


|i 


'f 


if 


r 


!l 


1 8     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

the  Confederate  breastworks,  crumple  up  on  itself, 
and  fade  away  back  into  the  smoke.  He  lost  it, 
and  lost  himself  in  the  smoke.  He  wandered 
blindly  over  the  field,  now  stumbling  over  a  dead 
man,  now  speaking  to  a  living  stricken  one :  Here 
straightening  a  torn  body  and  giving  water;  there 
hearing  the  confession  of  a  Catholic. 

Now  the  smoke  cleared,  and  Curtis'  troops 
came  yelling  across  the  flat  land.  Once,  twice 
they  tried  the  trenches  and  were  driven  back  into 
the  marshes.  A  captain  was  shot  off  the  back  of  a 
big  white  horse.  The  animal,  mad  with  fright  and 
blood  scent,  charged  down  upon  him  as  he  bent 
over  a  dying  man.  He  grabbed  the  bridle  and 
fought  the  horse.  Before  he  realised  what  he  was 
doing,  he  was  in  the  saddle  riding  back  and  forth 
across  the  field.  Right  up  to  the  trenches  the 
horse  carried  him. 

Within  twenty  paces  of  their  guns  lay  a  boy, 
a  thin,  long-legged  boy  with  a  long  beardless  face. 
He  lay  there  marking  the  high  tide  of  the  last 
charge  —  the  farthest  of  the  fallen.  The  chap- 
lain, tumbling  down  somehow  from  his  mount, 
picked  up  the  writhin^r  boy  and  bundled  him  across 
the  saddle.  Then  he  started  walking  back  look- 
ing for  his  own  lines. 

Now  here  was  the  boy  talking  to  him  across 
the  mists  of  twenty-five  years.  And  the  boy,  the 
man,  was  dying.  He  had  picked  the  boy,  Tom 
I.nnsing,  up  out  of  the  sand  where  he  would  have 


I  ! 


J 

■ 
1 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     19 

died  from  fever  bloat  or  been  trampled  to  death 
in  the  succeeding  charges.  He  had  given  him  life. 
And,  as  Tom  Lansing  had  said  to  his  daughter,  he 
had  given  that  daughter  life.  Now  he  knew  what 
Lansing  was  going  to  say. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  then,"  said  Lansing.  "  I 
don't  know  who  you  are  now,  Chaplain,  or  what 
you  are. 

*'  But,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "  if  I'd  agiven  you  a 
message  that  day  you'd  have  taken  it  on  for  me, 
wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would." 

'*  Suppose  it  had  been  to  my  mother,  say : 
You'da  risked  your  life  to  get  it  on  to  her?  " 

"  I  hope  I  would,"  said  the  Bishop  evenly. 

"  I  believe  you  would.  That's  what  I  think 
of  you,"  said  Tom  Lansing. 

"I  went  back  South  after  the  war,"  he  began 
again.  "  I  stole  my  girl's  mother  from  her  grand- 
father, an  old,  broken-down  Confederate  colonel 
that  would  have  shot  me  if  he  ever  laid  eyes  on 
me.  I  brought  her  up  here  into  the  hills  and  she 
died  when  the  baby  was  just  a  few  weeks  old. 

"  There  ain't  a  relation  in  the  world  that  my 
little  girl  could  go  to.  I'm  goin'  to  die  in  half 
an  hour.  But  what  better  would  she  be  if  I  lived  ? 
What  would  I  do  with  her?  Keep  her  here  and 
let  her  marry  some  fightin'  lumber  jack  that'd  beat 
her?  Or  see  her  break  her  heart  tryin' to  make 
1        a  livin'  on  one  of  these  rock  hil's?     She'd  fret 


i( 


hi 


20    THE  SHEPHliRD  OF  THE  NORTH 

herself  to  death.  She  knows  more  now  than  I 
do  and  she'd  soon  be  wantin'  to  know  more. 
She's  that  kind. 

"  She'd  ought  to  have  her  chance  the  way  I've 
seen  girls  in  towns  havin'  a  chance.  A  chance  to 
study  and  learn  and  grow  the  way  she  wants  to. 
And  now  I'm  desertin';  goin'  out  like  a  smoky 
lamp. 

"  It  was  a  crime,  a  crime !  "  he  groaned,  "  ever 
to  bring  her  mother  up  into  this  place !  " 

"  You  could  not  think  of  all  that  then.  No 
man  ever  does,"  said  the  Bishop  calmly.  "  And 
I  will  do  my  best  to  see  that  she  gets  her  chance. 
I  think  that's  what  you  want  to  ask  me,  isn't  it, 
Lansing?  " 

"Do  you  swear  It?"  gasped  Lansing,  strug- 
gling and  choking  in  an  effort  to  raise  his  head. 
"  Do  you  swear  to  try  and  see  that  she  gets  a 
chance?  " 

"  God  will  help  mc  tct  do  the  best  for  her,"  said 
the  Bishop  quietly.  "  I  am  the  Bishop  of  Alden. 
I  can  do  something." 

With  the  definiteness  of  a  man  who  has  heard  a 
final  word,  Tom  Lansing's  eyes  turned  to  his 
daughter. 

Obediently  she  came  again  and  knelt  at  his  side, 
holding  his  head. 

To  the  very  last,  as  long  as  his  eyes  could  see, 
they  saw  her  smiling  bravely  and  sweetly  down 
into  them;  giving  her  sacrament  and  holding  her 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN 


21 


light  of  cheering  love   for   the   soul   out-bound. 

When  the  last  twingeing  tremour  had  run 
through  the  racked  body,  she  leaned  over  and 
kissed  her  father  full  on  the  lips. 

Then  her  heart  broke.  She  ran  blindly  out  into 
the  night. 

While  the  Bishop  was  straightening  the  body 
on  the  couch,  a  young  man  and  two  women  came 
into  the  room. 

They  were  Jeffrey  Whiting  and  his  mother  and 
her  sister,  neighbours  whom  Arsene  had  brought. 

The  Bishop  was  much  relieved  with  their  com- 
ing. He  could  do  nothing  more  now,  and  the 
long  night  ride  was  still  ahead  of  him. 

He  told  the  young  man  that  the  girl,  Ruth,  had 
gone  out  into  the  cold,  and  asked  him  to  find  her. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  went  out  quickly.  He  had 
played  with  Ruth  Lansing  since  she  was  a  baby, 
for  they  were  the  only  children  on  Lansing  Moun- 
tain.    He  knew  where  he  would  find  her. 

Mrs.  Whiting,  n  keen-faced,  capable  woman  of 
the  hills,  where  people  had  to  meet  their  prob- 
lems and  burdens  alone,  took  command  at  once. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied  to  the  Bishop's  ques- 
tion, "there's  nobody  to  send  for.  The  Lan- 
sings  didn't  have  a  relation  living  that  anybody 
ever  heard  of,  and  I  knew  the  old  folks,  too,  Tom 
Lansing's  father  and  mother.  They're  buried  out 
there  on  the  hill  where  he'll  be  buried. 

"  There's   some  old   soldiers  down  the  West 


I 


22     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Slope  towards  Beaver  River.  They'll  want  to 
take  charge,  I  suppose.  The  funeral  must  be  on 
Monday,"  she  went  on  rapidly,  sketching  in  the 
programme.  "  We  have  a  preacher  if  we  can 
get  one.  But  when  we  can't  my  sister  Letty  here 
sings  something." 

"  Tom  Lansing  was  a  comrade  of  mine,  in  a 
way,"  said  the  Bishop  slowly.  "  At  least,  I  was 
at  Fort  Fisher  with  him.  I  think  I  should  like 
to—" 

"Were  you  at  Fort  Fisher?"  broke  in  the 
sister  Letty,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  '*  And 
did  you  see  Curtis'  colour  bearer?  He  was  killed 
in  the  first  charge.  A  tall,  dark  boy.  Jay  Hamil- 
ton, with  long,  black  hair?  " 

•'  He  had  an  old  scar  over  his  eye-brow." 
The  Bishop  supplemented  the  description  out  of 
the  memory  of  that  day. 

"  He  got  it  skating  on  Beaver  Run,  thirty-five 
years  ago  to-morrow,"  said  the  woman  trembling. 
"  You  saw  him  die?  " 

"  He  was  dead  when  I  came  to  him,"  said  the 
Bishop  quietly,  "with  the  stock  of  the  colour 
standard  still  clenched  In  his  hand." 

"  He  was  my  —  my  — "  Sweetheart,  she 
wanted  to  say.  But  the  hill  women  do  not  say 
things  easily. 

"Yes?"  said  the  Bishop  gently.  "I  under- 
stand." She  was  a  woman  of  his  people. 
Clearly  as  If  she  had  taken  an  hour  to  tell  it,  he 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     23 

could  read  the  years  of  her  faithfulness  to  the 
memory  of  that  lean,  dark  face  which  he  had  once 
seen,  with  the  purple  scar  above  the  eye-brow. 

Mrs.  Whiting  put  her  arm  protectingly  about 
her  sister. 

"Are  you — ?"  she  questioned,  hesitating 
strangely.  "Are  you  the  White  Horse  Chap- 
Iain?" 

"  The  boys  called  me  that,"  said  the  Bishop. 
"Though  it  was  only  a  name  for  a  day,"  he 
added. 

"It  was  true,  then?"  she  said  slowly,  as  if 
still  unready  to  believe.  "  We  never  half  be- 
lieved our  boys  when  they  came  home  from  the 
war  —  the  ones  that  did  come  hr  me  —  and  told 
about  the  white  horse  and  the  priest  riding  the 
field.  We  thought  it  was  one  of  the  things  men 
see  when  they're  fighting  and  dying." 

Then  Jeffrey  Whiting  came  back  into  the  room 
leading  Ruth  Lansing  by  the  hand. 

The  girl  was  shaking  with  cold  and  grief.  The 
Bishop  drew  her  over  to  the  fire. 

"  I  must  go  now,  child,"  he  said.  "  To-mor- 
row I  must  be  in  French  Village.  Monday  I  will 
be  here  again. 

"  Our  comrade  is  gone.  Did  you  hear  what  he 
said  to  me,  about  you?  " 

The  girl  looked  up  slowly,  searchingly  into  the 
Bishop's  face,  then  nodded  her  head. 

"  Then,  we  must  think  and  pray,  child,  that  we 


1* 
i.. 


r, 


24  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


J 


may  know  how  to  do  what  he  wanted  us  to  do. 
God  will  show  us  what  is  the  best.  That  is  what 
he  wanted. 

"  God  keep  you  brave  now.  Your  friends  here 
will  see  to  everything  for  you.  I  have  to  go 
now." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  laid  his  hand  for  a 
moment  on  the  brow  of  the  dead  man,  renewing  in 
his  heart  the  promise  he  had  made. 

Then,  with  a  hurried  word  to  Mrs.  Whiting 
that  he  would  be  back  before  noon  Monday,  he 
went  out  to  where  Arsene  and  his  horses  were 
stamping  in  the  snow. 

The  little  man  had  replaced  the  broken  trace, 
and  the  ponies,  fretting  with  the  cold  and  eager 
to  get  home,  took  hungrily  to  the  trail. 

But  the  Bishop  forgot  to  practise  his  French 
further  upon  Arsene.  He  told  him  briefly  what 
had  happenea,  Jien  lapsed  into  silence. 

Now  the  Bishop  remembered  what  Tom  Lan- 
sing had  said  about  the  girl.  She  knew  more  now 
than  he  did.  Not  more  than  Tom  Lansing  knew 
now.  But  more  than  Tom  Lansing  had  known 
half  an  hour  ago. 

She  would  want  to  see  the  world.  She  would 
want  to  know  life  and  ask  her  own  questions  from 
life  and  the  world.  In  the  broad  open  space  be- 
tween her  eye-brows  it  was  written  that  she  would 
never  take  anybody's  word  for  the  puzzles  of  the 
world.     She  was  marked  a  seeker;  one  of  those 


:>l' 


.t 


A 


Tin:  wiirn:  horse  chaplain    25 

who  look  unafraid  into  the  face  of  life,  and  de- 
mand to  know  what  it  means.  They  never  find 
out.  But,  heart  break  or  sparrow  fall,  they  must 
go  on  ever  and  ever  seeking  truth  in  their  own 
way.  The  world  is  infinitely  the  better  through 
them.     But  their  own  way  is  hard  and  lonely. 

She  must  go  out.  She  must  have  education. 
She  must  have  a  chance  to  face  life  and  wrest  its 
lessons  from  it  in  her  own  way.  It  did  not 
promise  happiness  for  her.  But  she  could  go  no 
other  way.  For  hers  was  the  high,  stony  way  of 
those  who  demand  more  than  jealous  life  is  ready 
to  give. 

The  Bishop  only  knew  that  he  had  this  night 
given  a  promise  which  had  sent  a  man  contentedly 
on  his  way.  Somehow,  God  would  show  him  how 
best  to  keep  that  promise. 

And  when  they  halloed  at  Father  Ponfret's 
house  in  French  Village  he  had  gotten  no  farther 
tiiun  th<it. 


"P 


Tom  Lansing  lay  in  dignified  state  upon  his 
couch.  Clean  white  sheets  had  been  draped  over 
the  skins  of  the  couch.  The  afternoon  sun  look- 
ing in  through  the  west  window  picked  out  every 
bare  thread  of  his  service  coat  and  glinted  on  the 
polished  brass  buttons.  His  bayonet  was  slung 
into  the  belt  at  his  side. 

Ruth  Lansing  sat  mute  in  her  grief  at  the  head 
of   the    couch,    listening    to    the    comments    and 


i  il  |t    -  il 


26     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

stumbling  condolences  of  neighbours  from  the 
high  hills  and  the  lower  valleys.  They  were  good, 
kindly  people,  she  knew.  But  why,  why,  must 
every  one  of  them  repeat  that  clumsy,  monotonous 
lie  —  How  natural  he  looked  1 

He  did  not.  He  did  not.  He  did  not  look 
natural.  How  could  her  Daddy  Tom  look  natu- 
ral, when  he  lay  there  all  still  and  cold,  and  would 
not  speak  to  his  Ruth ! 

He  was  dead.  And  what  was  death  —  And 
why?     IVhyf 

Who  had  ordered  this?     And  tahy? 
And  still  they  came  with  that  set,  borrowed 
phrase  —  the  only  thing  they  could  think  to  say 
—  upon  their  lips. 

Out  in  Tom  Lansing's  workshop  on  the  horse- 
barn  floor,  Jacque  Lafitte,  the  wright,  was  nailing 
soft  pine  boards  together. 

Ruth  could  not  stand  it.  Why  could  they  not 
leave  Daddy  Tom  to  her  ?  She  wanted  to  ask  him 
things.  She  knew  that  she  could  make  him  under- 
stand and  answer. 

She  slipped  away  from  the  couch  and  out  of 
the  house.  At  the  corner  of  the  house  her  dog 
joined  her  and  together  they  circled  away  from  the 
horse-barn  and  up  the  slope  of  the  hill  to  where 
her  father  had  been  working  yesterday. 

She  found  her  father's  cap  where  it  had  been 
left   in   her   fright  of   yesterday,   and   sat  down 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     27 

fondling  it  in  her  hands  The  dog  came  and  slid 
his  nose  along  her  dress  until  he  managed  to  snug- 
gle into  the  cap  between  her  hands. 

So  Jeffrey  Whiting  found  her  when  he  came  fol- 
lowing her  with  her  coat  and  hood. 

•'  You  better  put  these  on,  Ruth,"  he  said,  as 
he  dropped  the  coat  across  her  shoulder.  "  It's 
too  cold  here." 

The  girl  drew  the  coat  around  her  obediently, 
but  did  not  look  up  at  him.  She  was  grateful  for 
his  thought  of  her,  but  she  wus  not  ready  to  speak 
to  any  one. 

He  sat  down  quietly  beside  her  on  the  stump  and 
drew  the  dog  over  to  him. 

After  a  little  he  asked  timidly: 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Ruth  ?  You  can't 
stay  here.  I'll  tend  your  stock  and  look  after  the 
place  for  you.     But  you  just  can't  stay  here." 

*•  You?  "  she  questioned  finally.  "  You're  go- 
ing to  that  Albany  school  next  week.  You  said 
you  were  all  ready." 

"  I  was  all  ready.  But  I  ain't  going.  I'll  stay 
here  and  work  the  two  farms  for  you." 

'•  For  me?  "  she  said.  "  And  not  be  a  lawyer 
at  all?"  ^ 

"I  —  I  don't  care  anything  about  it  any  more," 
he  lied.  "  I  told  mother  this  morning  that  I 
wasn't  going.  She  said  she'd  have  you  come  and 
stay  with  her  till  Spring." 


m\ 


I- 1 


1 


>M 


28  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  And  then?"  the  girl  faced  the  matter,  lock- 
ing straight  and  unafraid  into  his  eyes.  "  And 
then?" 

"  Well,  then,"  he  hesitated.  "  You  see,  then 
I'll  be  twenty.  And  you'll  be  old  enough  to 
marry  me,"  he  hurried.  "  Your  father,  you 
know,  he  always  wanted  me  to  take  care  of  you, 
didn't  he?  "  he  pleaded,  awkwardly  but  subtly. 

"  I  know  you  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  now," 
he  went  on  hastily.  "  But  you'll  come  home  with 
mother  to-morrow,  won't  you?  You  know  she 
wants  you,  and  I  —  I  never  had  to  tell  you  that  I 
love  you.  You  knew  it  when  you  wasn't  any 
higher  than  Prince  here." 

"  Yes.  I  always  knew  it,  and  I'm  glad,"  the 
girl  answered  levelly.  "  I'm  glad  now.  Jeff.  But 
I  can't  let  you  do  it.  Some  day  you'd  hate  me 
for  it." 

"  Ruth !     You  know  better  than  that !  " 

"  Oh,  you'd  never  tell  me ;  I  know  that.  You'd 
do  your  best  to  hide  it  from  me.  But  some  day 
when  your  chance  was  gone  you'd  look  back  and 
see  what  you  might  have  been,  'stead  of  a  hump- 
backed farmer  in  the  hills.  Oh,  I  know.  You've 
told  me  all  your  dreams  and  plans,  how  you're 
jTuing  down  to  the  law  school,  and  going  to  be  a 
great  lawyer  and  go  to  Albany  and  maybe  to 
Washington." 

"What's  it  all  good  for?"  said  the  boy 
sturdily.     "  I'd  rather  stay  here  with  you." 


!,      !' 


ii! 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     29 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  In  the  strain  of  the 
night  and  the  day,  she  had  almost  forgotten  the 
things  that  she  had  heard  her  father  say  to  the 
White  Horse  Chaplain,  as  she  continued  to  call 
the  Bishop. 

Now  she  remembered  those  things  and  tried  to 
tell  them. 

"  That  strange  man  that  said  he  was  the 
Bishop  of  Alden  told  my  father  that  he  would  see 
that  I  got  a  chance.  My  father  called  him  the 
White  Horse  Chaplain  and  said  that  he  had  been 
sent  here  just  on  purpose  .0  look  after  me.  I 
didn't  know  there  were  bishops  in  this  country.  I 
thought  it  was  only  in  books  about  Europe." 

"What  did  they  say?" 

*'  My  father  said  that  I  would  want  to  go  out 
and  see  things  and  know  things;  that  I  mustn't  be 
married  to  a  —  a  lumber  jack.  He  said  it  was 
no  place  for  me  in  the  hills." 

"  And  this  man,  this  bishop,  is  going  to  send 
you  away  somewhere,  to  school?"  he  guessed 
shrewdly. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  suppose  that  was  it,"  said 
the  girl  slowly.  "  Yesterday  I  wanted  to  go  so 
much.  It  was  just  as  father  said.  He  had 
taught  me  all  he  knew.  And  I  thought  the  world 
outside  the  hills  was  full  of  just  the  most  wonder- 
ful things,  all  ready  for  me  to  go  and  see  and  pick 
up.     And  to-day  I  don't  care." 

She  looked  down  at  the  cap  in  her  hands,  at  the 


pi 


1 


"4  1 


f! 


1? 
I" 


30     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

dog  at  her  feet,  id  down  the  hillside  to  the  lit- 
tle cabin  in  the  hemlocks.  They  were  all  she  had 
in  the  world. 

The  boy,  watching  her  eagerly,  saw  the  look 
and  read  it  rightly. 

He  got  up  and  stood  before  her,  saying  plead- 
ingly : 

"  Don't  forget  to  count  me,  Ruth.  You've  got 
me,  you  know." 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  so  answered 
her  unspoken  thought.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
she  was  afraid  of  the  bare  world.  Perhaps  it  was 
just  the  eternal  surrender  of  woman. 

When  she  looked  up  at  him  her  eyes  were  full 
of  great,  shining  tears,  the  first  that  they  had 
known  since  she  had  kissed  Daddy  Tom  and  run 
out  into  the  night. 

He  lifted  her  into  his  arms,  and,  together,  they 
faced  the  white,  desolate  world  all  below  them 
and  plighted  to  each  other  their  untried  truth. 

When  Tom  Lansing  had  been  laid  in  the  white 
bosom  of  the  hillside,  and  the  people  were  dis- 
persing from  the  house,  young  Jeffrey  Whiting 
came  and  stood  before  the  Bishop.  The  Bishop's 
sharp  old  eyes  had  told  him  to  expect  something  of 
what  was  coming.  He  liked  the  look  of  the  boy's 
clean,  stubborn  jaw  and  the  steady,  level  glance 
of  his  eyes.  They  told  of  dependableness  and 
plenty  of  undeveloped  strength.     Here  was  not  a 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     31 


boy,  but  a  man  ready  to  fight  for  what  should  be 
his. 

"  Ruth  told  me  that  you  were  going  to  take 
her  away  from  the  hills,"  he  began.  "  To  a 
school,  I  suppose." 

"  I  made  1  promise  to  her  father,"  said  the 
Bishop,  "  that  I  would  try  to  see  that  she  got  the 
chance  that  she  will  want  in  the  world." 

"  But  I  love  her.  She's  going  to  marry  me  in 
the  Spring." 

The  Bishop  was  surprised.  He  had  not 
thought  matters  had  gone  so  far. 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  he  asked  thoughtfully. 

"  Twenty  in  April." 

"You  have  some  education?"  the  Bishop  sug- 
gested.    "  You  have  been  at  school?" 

"  Just  what  Tom  Lansing  taught  me  and  Ruth. 
And  last  Winter  at  the  Academy  in  Lowville,  I 
was  going  to  Albany  to  law  school  next  week." 

*'  And  you  are  giving  it  all  up  for  Ruth,"  said 
the  Bishop  incisively.     "  Does  it  hurt?  " 

The  boy  winced,  but  caught  himself  at  once. 

"  It  don't  make  any  difference  about  that.  I 
want  Ruth." 

"And  Ruth?  What  does  she  want?"  the 
Bishop  asked.  "  You  are  offering  to  make  a  sac- 
rifice for  her.  You  are  willing  to  give  up  your 
hopes  and  work  yourself  to  the  bone  here  on  these 
hills  for  her.     And  you  would  be  man  enough 


k: 


J.   i 


32    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

never  to  let  her  see  that  you  regretted  it.  I  be- 
lieve that.  But  what  of  her?  You  find  it  hard 
enough  to  give  up  your  chance,  for  her,  for  love. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  asking  her  to  give 
up  her  chance,  for  nothing,  for  less  than  noth- 
ing; because  in  giving  up  her  chance  she  would 
know  that  she  had  taken  away  yours,  too.  She 
would  be  a  good  and  loving  companion  to  you 
through  all  of  a  hard  life.  But,  for  both  your 
sakes,  she  would  never  forgive  you.     Never." 

"  You're  asking  me  to  give  her  up.  If  she  went 
out  and  got  a  start,  she'd  go  faster  than  I  could. 
I  know  it,"  said  the  boy  bitterly.  "  She'd  go  away 
above  me.     I'd  lose  her." 

"  I  am  not  asking  you  to  give  her  up,"  the 
Bishop  returned  steadily.  "  If  you  are  the  man 
I  think  you  are,  you  will  never  give  her  up.  But 
are  you  afraid  to  let  her  have  her  chance  in  the 
sun?  Are  you  afraid  to  let  her  have  what  you 
want  for  yourself?     Are  you  afraid?" 

The  boy  looked  steadily  into  the  Bishop's  eyes 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  quickly  and 
walked  across  the  room  to  where  Ruth  sat. 

"  I  can't  give  it  up,  Ruth,"  he  said  gruffly. 
"  I'm  going  to  Albany  to  school.  I  can't  give  it 
up." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him,  and  said  quietly: 

"You  needn't  have  tried  to  lie,  Jeff;  though 
it's  just  like  you  to  put  the  blame  on  yourself.  I 
know  what  he  said.     I  must  think." 


i 


■  p 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  CHAPLAIN     33 

The  boy  stood  watching  her  eyes  closely.  He 
saw  them  suddenly  light  up.  He  icnew  what  that 
meant.  She  was  seeing  the  great  world  with  all 
its  wonderful  mysteries  beckoning  her.  So  he 
himself  had  seen  it.  Now  he  knew  that  he  had 
lost. 

The  Bishop  had  put  on  his  coat  and  was  ready 
to  go.  The  day  was  slipping  away  and  before 
him  there  were  thirty  miles  and  a  train  to  be 
caught. 

"  We  must  not  be  hurried,  my  children,"  he 
said,  standing  by  the  boy  and  girl.  "  The  Sa- 
cred Heart  Academy  at  Athens  is  the  best  school 
this  side  of  Albany.  The  Mother  Superior  will 
write  you  in  a  few  days,  telling  you  when  and 
how  to  come.  If  you  are  ready  to  go,  you  will  go 
as  she  directs. 

"  You  have  been  a  good,  brave  little  girl.  A 
soldier's  daughter  could  be  no  more,  nor  less. 
God  bless  you  now,  and  you,  too,  my  boy,"  he 
added. 

When  he  was  settled  on  the  sled  with  Arsenc 
and  they  were  rounding  the  shoulder  of  Lansing 
Mountain,  where  the  pony  had  broken  the  trace, 
he  turned  to  look  back  at  the  cabin  in  the  hem- 
locks. 

"  To-day,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  have  set  two 
ambitious,  eager  souls  upon  the  high  and  stony 
paths  of  the  great  world.  Should  I  have  left  them 
where  they  were  ? 


11 


34     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  I  shall  never  know  whether  I  did  right  or  not. 
Even  time  will  mix  things  up  so  that  I'll  never  be 
able  to  tell.  Maybe  some  d  y  God  will  let  me 
see.  But  why  should  he?  One  can  only  aim 
right,  and  trust  in  Him." 


ihtr 


II 


THE   CHOIR    UNSEEN 


Ruth  Lansing  sat  in  one  of  the  music  rooms 
of  the  Sacred  Heart  convent  in  Athens  thrumming 
out  a  finger  exercise  that  a  child  of  six  would  have 
been  able  to  do  as  well  as  she. 

It  was  a  strange,  little,  closely-crowded  world, 
this,  into  which  she  had  been  suddenly  trans- 
planted. It  was  as  different  from  the  great  world 
that  she  had  come  out  to  see  as  it  was  from  the 
wild,  sweet  life  of  the  hills  where  she  had  ruled 
and  managed  everything  within  reach.  Mainly  it 
was  full  of  girls  of  her  own  age  whose  talk  and 
thoughts  were  of  a  range  entirely  new  to  her. 

She  compared  herself  with  them  and  knew  that 
they  were  really  children  in  the  comparison. 
Their  talk  was  of  dress  and  manners  and  society 
and  the  thousand  little  and  big  things  that  grow- 
ing girls  look  forward  to.  She  knew  that  in  any 
real  test,  anything  that  demanded  common  sense 
and  action,  she  was  years  older  than  they.  But 
they  had  things  that  she  did  not  have. 

They  talked  of  things  that  she  knew  nothing 
about.  They  could  walk  across  waxed  floors  as 
though  waxed  floors  were  meant  to  be  walked  on. 

35 


u 


f\k 


36     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

They  could  rise  to  recite  lessons  without  stammer- 
ing or  choking  as  she  did.  They  could  take  re- 
proof jauntily,  where  she,  who  had  never  in  her 
life  received  a  scolding,  would  have  been  driven 
into  hysterics.  They  could  wear  new  dresses  just 
as  th  "Ugh  all  dresses  were  supposed  to  be  new. 
She  knew  that  these  were  not  things  that  they  had 
learned  by  studying.  They  just  grew  up  to  them, 
just  as  she  knew  how  to  throw  a  fishing  line  and 
hold  a  rifle. 

But  she  wanted  all  those  things  that  they  had; 
wanted  them  all  passionately.  She  had  the  sense 
to  know  that  those  were  not  great  things.  But 
they  were  the  things  that  would  make  her  like 
these  other  girls.  And  she  wanted  to  be  like 
them. 

Because  she  had  not  grown  up  with  other  girls, 
because  she  had  never  even  had  a  girl  playmate, 
she  wanted  not  to  miss  any  of  the  things  that  they 
had  and  were. 

They  baffled  her,  ^ftese  girls.  Her  own  quick, 
eager  mind  sprang  at  books  and  fairly  tore  the 
lessons  from  them.  She  ran  away  from  the  girls 
in  anything  that  could  be  learned  in  that  way. 
But  when  she  found  herself  with  two  or  three  of 
them  they  talked  a  language  that  she  did  not  know. 
She  could  not  keep  up  with  them.  And  she 
was  stupid  and  awkward,  and  felt  it.  It  was  not 
easy  to  break  into  their  world  and  be  one  of  them. 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


37 


Then  there  was  that  other  world,  touching  the 
world  of  the  girls  but  infinitely  removed  from  it 
—  the  world  of  the  sisters. 

That  mysterious  cloister  from  which  the  sisters 
came  and  gave  their  hours  of  teaching  or  duty  and 
to  which  they  retreated  back  again  was  a  world  all 
by  itself. 

What  was  there  in  there  behind  those  doors 
that  never  banged?  What  was  there  in  there 
that  made  the  sisters  all  so  very  much  alike? 
They  must  once  have  been  as  different  as  every 
girl  is  different  from  every  other  girl. 

How  was  it  that  they  could  carry  with  them 
all  day  long  that  air  of  never  being  tired  or  fretted 
or  worried?  What  wonderful  presence  was  there 
behind  the  doors  of  that  cloistered  house  that 
seemed  to  come  out  with  them  and  stay  with  them 
all  the  time?  What  was  the  light  that  shone  in 
their  faces? 

Was  it  just  because  they  were  always  contented 
and  happy?  What  did  they  have  to  be  happy 
about? 

Ruth  had  tried  to  question  the  other  girls  about 
this.  They  were  Catholics.  They  ought  to 
know.  But  Bessie  Donnelly  had  brushed  her 
question  aside  with  a  stare: 

"  Sisters  always  look  like  that." 

So  Ruth  did  not  ask  any  more, 
kept  prying  at  that  world  of  the 


But  her  mind 
sisters  behind 


11 


.!! 


38      I  HI-;  SIli:iMIF.RI)  OF  Till-:  NORTH 

those  walls.  What  did  they  do  in  there?  Did 
they  laugh  and  talk  and  scold  each  other,  like  peo- 
ple? Or  did  they  just  pray  all  the  time?  Or 
did  they  see  wonderful,  starry  visions  of  (jod  and 
Heaven  that  they  were  alv/ays  talking?  about? 
They  seemed  so  familiar  with  God.  They  knew 
just  when  He  was  pleased  and  especially  when  He 
was  displeased. 

She  had  come  down  out  of  her  hills  where 
everything  was  so  open,  where  there  were  no  mys- 
teries, where  everything  from  the  bark  on  the  trees 
to  the  snow  clouds  on  Marcy,  fifty  miles  away, 
was  as  clear  as  a  printed  book.  Everything  up 
there  told  its  plain  lesson.  She  could  read  the 
storm  signs  and  the  squirrel  tracks.  Nothing  had 
been  hidden.  Nothing  in  nature  or  life  up  there 
had  ever  shut  itself  away  from  her. 

Here  were  worlds  inside  of  worlds,  every  one  of 
them  closing  its  door  in  the  face  of  her  sharp, 
hungry  mind. 

And  there  was  that  other  world,  enveloping  all 
the  other  lesser  worlds  about  her  —  the  world  of 
the  Catholic  Church. 

Three  weeks  ago  those  two  words  had  meant 
to  her  a  little  green  building  in  French  Village 
where  the  *'  Canucks  "  went  to  church. 

Now  her  day  began  and  ended  with  it.  It  was 
on  all  sides  of  her.  The  pictures  and  the  images 
on  every  wall,  the  signs  on  every  classroom  door. 
The  books  she  rend,  the  talk  she  heard  was  all 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


39 


filled  with  it.  It  came  and  went  through  every 
door  of  life. 

All  the  inherited  prejudices  of  her  line  of  New 
England  fathers  were  alive  and  stirring  in  her 
against  this  religion  that  demanded  so  much. 
The  untrammelled  spirit  that  the  hills  had  given 
her  fought  against  it.  It  was  so  absolute.  It  was 
so  sure  of  everything.  She  wanted  to  argue  with 
it,  to  quarrel  with  it.  She  was  sure  that  it  must 
be  wrong  sometimes. 

But  just  when  she  was  sure  that  she  had  found 
something  false,  something  that  she  knew  was  not 
right  in  the  things  they  taught  her,  she  was  always 
told  that  she  had  not  understood.  Some  one  was 
always  ready  to  tell  her,  in  an  easy,  patient, 
amused  way,  that  she  had  gotten  the  thing  wrong. 
How  could  they  always  be  so  sure?  And  what 
was  wrong  with  her  that  she  could  not  understand? 
She  could  learn  everything  else  faster  and  more 
easily  than  the  other  girls  could. 

Suddenly  her  fingers  slipped  off  the  keys  and  her 
hands  fell  nervelessly  to  her  sides.  Her  eyes  were 
blinded  with  great,  burning  tears.  A  wave  of  in- 
tolerable longing  and  loneliness  swept  over  iier. 

The  wonderful,  enchanting  world  that  she  had 
come  out  of  her  hills  to  conquer  was  cut  down 
to  the  four  little  grey  walls  that  enclosed  her. 
Everything  was  shut  away  from  her.  She  did  not 
understand  these  strange  women  about  her. 
Would  nevci  understand  ihem. 


I? 


Hf 


< 


40    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Why?  Why  had  she  ever  left  her  hills,  where 
Daddy  Tom  was  near  her,  where  there  was  love 
for  her,  where  the  people  and  even  the  snow  and 
the  wild  winds  were  her  friends? 

She  threw  herself  forward  on  her  arms  and 
gave  way  utterly,  crying  in  great,  heart-breaking, 
breathless  sobs  for  her  Daddy  Tom,  for  her  home, 
for  her  hills. 

At  five  o'clock  Sister  Rose,  coming  to  see  that 
the  music  rooms  were  aired  for  the  evening  use, 
found  Ruth  an  inert,  shapeless  little  bundle  of 
broken  nerves  lying  across  the  p'ano. 

She  took  the  girl  to  her  room  and  sent  for  the 
sister  infirmarian. 

But  Ruth  was  not  sick.  She  begged  them  only 
to  leave  her  alone. 

The  sisters,  thinking  that  it  was  the  fit  of  home- 
sickness that  every  new  pupil  in  a  boarding  school 
is  liable  to,  sent  some  of  the  other  girls  in  during 
the  evening,  to  cheer  Ruth  out  of  it.  iiut  she 
drove  them  away.  She  was  not  cross  nor  pettish. 
But  her  soul  was  sick  for  the  sweeping  freedom 
of  her  hills  and  for  people  who  could  understand 
her. 

She  rose  and  dragged  her  little  couch  over  to 
the  window,  where  she  could  look  out  and  up  to 
the  friendly  stars,  the  same  ones  that  peeped  down 
upon  her  in  the  hills. 

She  did  not  know  the  names  that  they  had  in 
books,  but  she  had  framed  little  pet  names  for 


■  ii 


IllM 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


41 


them  all  out  of  her  baby  fancies  and  the  names  had 
clung  to  them  all  the  years. 

She  recognised  them,  although  they  did  not 
stand  in  the  places  where  they  belonged  when  she 
looked  at  them  from  the  hills. 

Out  among  them  somewhere  was  Heaven. 
Daddy  Tom  was  there,  and  her  mother  whom  she 
had  never  seen. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  night,  from  Heaven  it 
seemed,  there  came  stealing  into  her  sense  a  sound. 
Or  was  it  a  sound?  It  was  so  delicate,  so  illusive. 
It  did  not  stop  knocking  at  the  portals  of  the  ear 
as  other  sounds  must  do.  It  seemed,  rather,  to 
steal  past  the  clumsy  senses  directly  into  the  spirit 
and  the  heart. 

It  was  music.  Yes.  But  it  was  as  though  the 
Soul  of  Music  had  freed  itself  of  the  bondage  and 
the  body  of  sound  and  notes  and  came  carrying  its 
unutterable  message  straight  to  the  soul  of  the 
world. 

It  was  only  the  sisters  in  their  chapel  gently 
hymning  the  Salve  of  the  Compline  to  their  Queen 
in  Heaven. 

Ruth  Lansing  might  have  heard  the  same  sub- 
dued, sweetly  poignant  evensong  on  every  other 
night.  Other  nights,  her  mind  filled  with  books 
and  its  other  business,  the  music  had  scarcely 
reached  her.  To-night  her  soul  was  alive.  Her 
every  sense  was  like  a  nerve  laid  bare,  ready  to  be 
thrilled  and  hurt  by  the  most  delicate  pressures. 


■I 
% 


Uh 


■%,.■■ 

I'' 

'I 


42     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

She  did  not  think  of  the  sisters.  She  saw  the 
deep  rose  flush  of  the  windows  in  the  dimly  lighted 
chapel  across  the  court,  and  knew  vaguely,  per- 
haps, that  the  music  came  from  there.  But  it  car- 
ried her  beyond  all  thought. 

She  did  not  hear  the  words  of  the  hymn. 
Would  not  have  understood  them  if  she  had  heard. 
But  the  lifting  of  hearts  to  Our  Life,  our  Szceet- 
ness  and  our  Hope  caught  her  heart  up  into  a 
world  where  words  were  never  needed. 

She  heard  the  cry  of  the  Banished  children  of 
E've.  The  Mourning  and  weeping  in  this  vale 
of  tears  swept  into  her  soul  like  the  flood-tide  of 
all  the  sorrow  of  all  the  world. 

On  and  upwards  the  music  carried  her,  until  she 
could  hear  the  triumph,  until  her  soul  rang  with 
the  glory  and  the  victory  of   The  Promises  of 

Christ.  ,     r   1    r 

The  music  ceased.  She  saw  the  light  fade  from 
the  chapel  windows,  leaving  only  the  one  little 
blood-red  spot  of  light  before  the  altar.  She  lay 
there  trembling,  not  daring  to  move,  while  the 
echo  of  that  unseen  choir  caught  her  heartstrings 
and  set  them  ringing  to  the  measure  of  the  heart 

of  the  world.  . 

It  was  not  the  unembodied  cry  of  the  pain  and 
helplessness  but  the  undying  hope  of  the  world 
that  she  had  heard.  It  was  the  cry  of  the  httle 
blind  ones  of  all  the  earth.  It  was  the  cry  of 
martvrs  on  their  pvres.     It  was  the  cry  of  strong 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


43 


men  and  valiant  women  crushed  under  the  forces 
of  life.  And  it  was  the  voice  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  which  knows  what  the  soul  of  the  world 
is  saying.  Ruth  Lansing  knew  this.  She  realised 
it  as  she  lay  there  trembling. 

Always,  as  long  as  life  was  in  her;  always, 
whether  she  worked  or  laughed,  cried  or  played; 
always  that  voice  would  grip  her  heart  and  play 
upon  it  and  lead  her  whether  she  would  or  no. 

It  would  lead  her.  It  would  carry  her.  It 
would  send  her. 

Through  all  the  long  night  she  fought  it.  She 
would  not!  She  would  not  give  up  her  life,  her 
will,  her  spirit !     Why  ?     Why  ?     Why  must  she  ? 

It  would  take  her  spirit  out  of  the  freedom  of 
the  hills  and  make  it  follow  a  trodden  way.  It 
would  take  her  life  out  of  her  hands  and  maybe 
ask  her  to  shut  herself  up,  away  from  the  sun  and 
the  wind,  in  a  darkened  convent.  It  would  take 
her  will,  the  will  of  a  soldier's  daughter,  and  break 
it  into  little  pieces  to  make  a  path  for  her  to  walk 
upon! 

No!  No!  No!  Through  all  the  endless 
night  she  moaned  her  protest.  She  would  not! 
She  would  not  give  in  to  it. 

It  would  never  let  her  rest.  Through  all  her 
life  that  voice  cu  the  Choir  Unseen  would  strike 
the  strings  of  her  heart.     She  knew  it. 

But  she  wouid  not.  Never  would  she  give  in 
to  it. 


44     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

In  the  morning,  even  before  the  coming  of  the 
dawn,  the  music  came  again;  and  it  beat  upon  her 
worn,  ragged  nerves,  and  tore  and  wrenched  at 
her  heart  until  she  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

The  sisters  were  taking  up  again  the  burden  and 
the  way  of  the  day. 

She  could  not  stand  it!  She  could  not  stay 
here !  She  must  go  back  to  her  hills,  where  there 
was  peace  for  her. 

She  heard  the  sister  going  down  to  unlock  the 
street  door  so  that  Father  Tenney  could  walk  in 
when  it  was  time  and  go  up  to  the  chape!  for  the 
sisters'  early  mass.  , 

That  was  her  chance !  The  sisters  would  be  m 
chapel.     The  girls  would  be  still  in  their  rooms. 

She  dressed  hastily  and  threw  her  books  into  a 
bag.  She  would  take  only  these  and  her  money. 
She  had  enough  to  get  home  on.     The  rest  did 

not  matter. 

When  she  heard  the  priest's  step  pass  in  the 
hall,  she  slipped  out  and  down  the  dim,  broad 

The  great,  heavy  door  of  the  convent  stood 
like  the  gate  of  the  world.  It  swung  slowly,  de- 
liberately, on  its  well-oiled,  silent  hinges. 

She  stood  in  the  portal  a  moment,  drinking 
hungrily  the  fresh,  free  air  of  the  morning  that 
had  come  down  from  her  hills.  Then  she  fled 
away  into  the  dawn. 


!  ■■ 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


45 


The  sun  was  just  showing  over  Lansing  moun- 
tain as  Jeffrey  Whiting  came  out  of  his  mother's 
house  dragging  a  hair  trunk  by  the  handle.  His 
uncle,  Cassius  Bascom,  drove  up  from  the  barn 
with  the  team  and  sled.  Jeffrey  threw  his  trunk 
upon  the  sled  and  bent  to  lash  it  down  safe.  It 
was  twenty-five  miles  of  half  broken  road  and 
snowdrifts  to  Lowville  and  the  railroad. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  was  doing  what  the  typical 
American  farm  boy  has  been  doing  for  the  last 
hundred  years  and  what  he  will  probably  continue 
to  do  as  long  as  we  Americans  are  what  we  are. 
He  is  not  always  a  dreamer,  your  farm  boy,  when 
he  starts  down  from  his  hills  or  his  cross-roads 
farm  to  see  the  big  world  and  conquer  it.  More 
often  than  you  would  think,  he  knows  that  he  is 
not  going  to  conquer  it  at  all.  And  he  is  not,  on 
the  other  hand,  merely  running  away  from  the 
drudgery  of  the  farm.  He  knows  that  he  will 
probably  have  to  work  harder  than  he  would  ever 
have  worked  on  the  farm.  But  he  knows  that  he 
has  things  to  sell.  And  he  is  going  down  into  the 
markets  of  men.  He  has  a  good  head  and  a 
strong  body.  He  has  a  power  of  work  in  him. 
He  has  grit  and  energy. 

He  is  going  down  into  the  markets  where  men 
pay  the  price  for  these  things  that  he  has.  He  is 
going  to  fight  men  for  that  price  which  he  knows 
his  things  are  worth. 


3     ?' 


if     4 


I 


46     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Jeffrey's  mother  came  out  carrying  a  canvas 
satchel  which  she  put  on  the  sled  under  Cassius 
Bascom's  feet. 

"  Don't  kick  that,  Catty,"  she  warned,  "  Jeff's 
lunch  is  in  it.  And,  Jeff,  don't  you  go  and  check 
it  with  the  trunk."  There  was  just  a  little  catch 
in  the  laugh  with  which  she  said  this.  She  was 
remembering  a  day  more  than  twenty  years  before 
when  she  had  started,  a  bride,  with  big,  lumber- 
ing, slow-witted,  adoring  Dan  Whiting,  Jeffrey's 
father,  on  her  wedding  trip  to  Niagara  Falls,  with 
their  lunch  in  that  same  satchel.  Dan  Whiting 
checked  the  satchel  through  from  Lowville  to  Buf- 
falo, and  they  had  nearly  starved  on  the  way.  It 
was  easy  to  forgive  Dan  Whiting  his  stupidity. 
But  she  never  quite  forgave  him  for  telling  it  on 
himself  when  they  got  back.  It  had  been  a  stand- 
ing joke  in  the  hills  all  these  years. 

She  was  just  a  typical  mother  of  the  hills.  She 
loved  her  boy.  She  needed  him.  She  knew  that 
she  would  never  have  him  again.  The  boys  do 
not  come  back  from  the  market  place.  She  knew 
that  she  would  cry  for  him  through  many  a  lonely 
night,  as  she  had  cried  all  last  night.  But  she  was 
not  crying  now. 

Her  deep  grey  eyes  smiled  steadily  up  into  his 
as  she  stretched  her  arms  up  around  the  neck  of 
her  tall  boy  and  drew  his  head  down  to  kiss  her. 

He  was  not  a  dull  boy.  He  was  quick  of  heart. 
He  knew  his  mother  very  well.     So  he  began  w^ith 


m^' 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


47 


the  old,  old  lie;  the  lie  that  we  all  tried  to  tell 
when  we  were  leaving. 

"  It'll  only  be  a  little  while,  Mother.  You 
won't  find  the  time  slipping  by,  and  I'll  be  bacic." 

She  knew  it  was  a  lie.  All  the  mothers  of  boys 
always  knew  it  was  a  lie.  But  she  backed  him  up 
sturdily : 

*'  Why,  of  course,  Jeff.  Don't  worry  about  me. 
You'll  be  back  in  no  time." 

Miss  Letitia  Bascom  came  hurrying  out  of  the 
house  with  a  dark,  oblong  object  in  her  hands. 

"  There  now,  Jeff  Whiting,  I  know  you  just 
tried  to  forget  this  on  purpose.  It's  too  late  to 
put  it  in  the  trunk  now;  so  you'll  just  have  to  put 
it  in  your  overcoat  pocket." 

Jeffrey  groaned  in  spirit.  It  was  a  full-grown 
brick  covered  with  felt,  a  foot  warmer.  Aunt 
Letty  had  made  him  take  one  with  him  when  he 
went  down  to  the  Academy  at  Lowville  last  win- 
ter, and  he  and  his  brick  had  furnished  much  of  the 
winter's  amusement  there.  The  memory  of  his 
humiliations  on  account  of  that  brick  would  last  a 
lifetime.  He  wondered  why  maiden  aunts  could 
not  understand.  His  mother,  now,  would  have 
known  better.  But  he  dutifully  put  the  thing  into 
the  pocket  of  his  big  coat  —  he  could  drop  it  into 
the  first  snowback  —  and  turned  to  kiss  his  aunt. 

"  I  know  all  about  them  hall  bedrooms  in  Al- 
bany," she  lectured.  "  Make  your  landlady  heat 
it  for  you  every  night." 


.  *:•: 


48  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

A  noise  in  the  road  made  them  all  turn. 

Two  men  in  a  high-backed,  low-set  cutter  were 
driving  into  the  yard. 

It  was  evident  from  the  signs  that  the  men 
had  been  having  a  hard  time  on  the  road.  They 
must  have  been  out  all  night,  for  they  could  not 
have  started  from  anywhere  early  enough  to  be 
here  now  at  sunrise. 

Their  harness  had  been  broken  and  mended  in 
several  places.  The  cutter  had  a  runner  broken. 
The  horses  were  cut  and  bloody,  where  they  had 
kicked  themselves  and  each  other  in  the  drifts. 

As  they  drove  up  beside  the  group  in  the  yard, 
one  of  the  men  shouted: 

"  Say,  is  there  any  place  we  can  put  in  here? 
We've  been  on  that  road  all  night." 

"  Drive  in  onto  the  barn  floor,  and  come  in  and 
warm  yourselves,"  said  Mrs.  Whiting. 

"  Rogers,"  said  the  man  who  had  spoken,  ad- 
dressing the  other,  "  if  I  ever  get  into  a  place  that's 
warm,  I'll  stay  there  till  spring." 

Rogers  laid  the  lines  down  on  the  dashboard  of 
the  cutter  and  stepped  stiffly  out  into  the  snow. 
He  swept  the  group  with  a  sharp,  a  praising  eye, 
and  asked: 

"  Who's  the  one  to  talk  to  here?  " 

Jeffrey  Whiting  stepped  forward  naturally  and 
replied  with  another  question. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

Rogers,  a  large,  square-faced  man,  with  a  stubby 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


49 


grey  moustache  and  cold  grey  eyes,  looked  the 
youth  over  carefully  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  want  a  man  that  knows  this  country  and  can 
get  around  in  it  in  this  season.  I  was  brought  up 
in  the  country,  but  I  never  saw  anything  like  this. 
I  wouldn't  take  a  trip  like  this  again  for  any 
money.  I  can't  do  this  sort  of  thing.  I  want  a 
man  that  knows  the  country  and  the  people  and 
can  do  it." 

*'  Well,  I'm  going  away  now,"  said  Jeffrey 
slowly,  "  but  Uncle  Catty  here  knows  the  people 
and  the  country  better  than  most  and  he  can  go 
anywhere." 

The  big  man  looked  doubtfully  at  the  little,  old- 
ish man  on  the  sled.  Then  he  turned  away  de- 
cisively. Uncle  Cassius,  his  kindly,  ugly  old  face 
all  withered  and  puckered  to  one  side,  where  a 
splinter  of  shell  from  Fort  Fisher  had  taken  away 
his  right  eye,  was  evidently  not  the  kind  of  man 
that  the  big  man  wanted. 

"  Where  are  you  going? "  he  asked  Jeffrey 
sharply. 

"  Albany  Law  School,"  said  Jeffrey  promptly. 

"  Unstrap  the  trunk,  young  man.  You're  not 
going.  I've  got  something  for  you  right  here  at 
home  that'll  teach  you  more  than  ten  law  schools. 
Put  both  teams  into  the  barn,"  the  big  man  com- 
manded loudly. 

Jeffrey  stood  still  a  moment,  as  though  he  would 
oppose  the  will  of  this  brusque  stranger.     But  he 


! 


I 


M 


50     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

knew  that  he  would  not  do  so.  In  that  moment 
something  told  him  that  he  would  not  go  to  law 
school;  would  never  go  there;  that  his  life  was 
about  to  take  a  twist  away  from  everything  that  he 
had  ever  intended. 

Mrs.  Whiting  broke  the  pause,  saying  simply: 
"  Come  into  the  house." 

In  the  broad,  low  kitchen,  while  Letitia  Bascom 
poured  boiling  tea  for  the  two  men,  Rogers,  cup 
in  hand,  stood  squarely  on  the  hearth  and  ex- 
plained himself.  The  other  man,  whose  nanie 
does  not  matter,  sank  into  a  great  wooden  chair 
at  the  side  of  the  fire  and  seemed  to  be  ready  to 
make  good  his  threat  of  staying  until  spring. 

"  I  represent  the  U.  &  M.  railroad.  We  are 
coming  up  through  here  in  the  spring.  AH  these 
farms  have  to  be  given  up.  We  have  eminent  do- 
main for  this  whole  section,"  said  Rogers. 

'*  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Jeffrey.  "  The 
railroad  can'c  run  all  over  the  country." 

"  No.  But  the  road  will  need  the  whole  strip 
of  hills  for  timber.  They'll  cut  off  what  is  stand- 
ing and  then  they'll  stock  the  whole  country  with 
cedar,  for  ties.  That's  all  the  land's  good  for, 
anyway." 

Jeffrey  Whiting's  mouth  opened  for  an  answer 
to  this,  but  his  mother's  sharp,  warning  glance 
stopped  him.  He  understood  that  it  was  his  place 
to  listen  and  learn.  There  would  be  time  enough 
for  questions  and  arguments  afterward. 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


51 


"  Now  these  people  here  won't  understand  what 
eminent  domain  means,"  the  big  man  went  on. 
"  I'm  going  to  make  it  clear  to  you,  young  man. 
I  know  who  you  are  and  I  know  more  about  you 
than  you  think.  I'm  going  to  make  it  clear  to  you 
and  then  I'm  going  to  send  you  out  among  them 
to  make  them  see  it.  They  wouldn't  understand 
me  and  they  wouldn't  believe  me.     You  can  make 

them  see  it." 

"How  do  you  know  that  I'll  believe  you?" 

asked  Jeffrey. 

"  You've  got  brains.     You  don't  have  to  be- 
lieve.    I  can  show  it  to  you." 

Jeffrey  Whiting  was  a  big,  strong  boy,  well  ac- 
customed to  taking  responsibilities  upon  himself. 
He  had  never  been  afraid  of  anything  and  this 
perhaps  had  given  him  more  than  the  average 
boy's  good  opinion  of  himself.  Nothing  could 
have  appealed  to  him  more  subtly  than  this  man's 
bluff,  curt  flattery.  He  was  being  met  man  to 
man  by  a  man  of  the  world.  No  boy  is  proof 
against  the  compliment  that  he  is  a  man,  to  be 
dealt  with  as  a  man  and  equal  of  older,  more  ex- 
perienced men.     Jeffrey  was  ready  to  listen. 

"  Do  you  know  what  an  option  is?  "  the  man 
began  again. 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Rogers,  in  a  manner  that 
seemed  to  confirm  his  previous  judgment  of 
Jeffrey's  brains.     "  Now  then,  the  railroad  has  got 


52   THE  siiiipm  KD  ()'  thl:  north 

to  have  all  these  farms  from  Beaver  River  right 
up  to  the  head  of  l.ittlc  Tuppcr  Lake.  1  say  these 
people  won't  know  what  eminent  domain  means. 
You're  going  to  tell  them.  It  means  that  they  can 
sell  at  the  railroatl's  price  or  they  ran  hold  ofl 
and  n  cferee  will  be  appointed  to  name  a  price. 
The  railroad  will  have  a  big  say  in  appointing 
those  referees.     Do  you  understand  me?" 

"  Yes.     1  see,"  said  Jeffrey.     "  But—" 

"  No  huts  at  all  about  it.  young  man,"  said  Rog- 
ers, waving  his  hand.  "  The  people  have  got  to 
sell.  If  they  give  options  at  once  —  within  thirty 
days  —  they'll  get  more  than  a  fair  price  for  their 
land.  If  they  don't  —  if  they  hold  off  —  their 
farms  will  be  condemned  as  forest  land.  And  you 
know  how  much  that  brings. 

"  You  people  will  be  the  first.  You  can  ask  al- 
most anything  for  your  land.  You'll  get  it. 
And,  what  is  more,  I  am  able  to  offer  you,  Whit- 
ing, a  very  liberal  commission  on  every  option 
you  can  get  me  within  the  time  I  have  said.  This 
is  the  thing  that  I  can't  do.  It's  the  thing  that  I 
want  you  to  do. 

"  You'll  do  it.  I  know  you  will,  when  you  get 
time  to  think  it  over.  Here  are  the  options,"  said 
the  big  man,  pulling  a  packet  of  folded  papers 
out  of  his  pocket.  "  They  cover  every  farm  in 
the  section.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  get  the 
people  to  write  their  names  once.     Then  your 


THE  CHOIR  LiXSEFN 


53 


work  is  done.  We'll  do  the  rest  and  your  com- 
missions will  be  waiting  for  you.  Some  better 
than  law  school,  eh?  " 

"  But  say,"  Jeffrey  stammered,  "  say,  that 
means,  why,  that  means  my  mother  and  the  folks 
here,  why,  they'd  have  to  get  out;  they'd  have  to 
leave  their  home !  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Rogers  easily.  "  A  man 
like  you  isn't  going  to  keep  his  family  up  on  top  of 
this  rock  very  long.  Why,  young  fellow,  you'll 
have  the  best  home  in  Lowvill .  for  them,  where 
they  can  live  in  style,  in  less  than  six  months.  Do 
you  think  your  mother  wants  to  stay  here  after 
you're  gone.  You  were  going  away.  Did  you 
think,"  he  said  shrewdly,  "  what  life  up  here  would 
be  worth  to  your  mother  while  you  were  away. 
No,  you're  just  like  all  boys.  You  wanted  to  get 
away  yourself.  But  you  never  thought  what  a 
life  this  is  for  her. 

"  Why,  boy,  she's  a  young  woman  yet.  You 
can  take  her  out  and  give  her  a  chance  to  live. 
Do  you  hear,  a  chance  to  live. 

"  Think  it  over." 

Jeffrey  Whiting  thought,  harder  and  faster  than 
he  had  ever  tried  to  think  in  his  life.  But  he  could 
make  nothing  of  it. 

He  thought  of  the  people,  old  and  young,  on 
the  hills,  suddenly  set  adrift  from  their  homes. 
He  thought  of  his  mother  and  Uncle  Cassius  and 


i 'l 


¥ 


54     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Aunt  Letitia  without  their  real  home  to  come  back 
to.  And  he  thought  of  money  —  illimitable 
money :  money  that  could  do  everything. 

He  did  not  want  to  look  at  his  mother  for  coun- 
sel. The  man's  talk  had  gone  to  his  head.  But, 
slowly,  unwillingly  his  eyes  came  to  his  mother's, 
and  he  saw  in  hers  that  steady,  steadfast  look 
which  told  him  to  wait,  wait.  He  caught  the 
meaning  and  spoke  it  brusquely: 

"  All  right.  Leave  the  options  here,  I'll  sec 
what  we'll  do.     And  I'll  write  to  you  next  week." 

No.  That  would  not  do.  The  big  man  must 
have  his  answer  at  once.  He  stormed  at  Jeffrey. 
He  appealed  to  Mrs.  Whiting.  He  blandished 
Miss  Letitia.  He  even  attacked  Uncle  Cassius, 
but  that  guileless  man  led  him  off  into  such  a  dis- 
cussion of  cross  grafting  and  reforestation  that  he 
was  glad  to  drop  him. 

In  the  end,  he  saw  that,  having  committed  him- 
self, he  could  do  no  better  than  leave  the  matter 
to  Jeffrey,  trusting  that,  with  time  for  thought, 
the  boy  could  not  refi'se  his  offer. 

So  the  two  men,  having  breakfasted  and  rested 
their  horses,  set  out  on  the  down  trip  to  Lowville. 

Late  that  night  Jeffrey  Whiting  and  his  mother 
came  to  a  decision. 

"  It  is  too  big  for  us,  Jeff,"  she  said.  "  We  do 
not  know  what  it  means.  Nobody  up  here  can  tell 
us.  The  man  was  lying.  But  we  do  not  know 
why,  or  what  about. 


'I 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


55 


"  There  is  one  man  that  could  tell  us.  The 
White  Horse  Chaplain,  do  you  remember  him, 
Jeffrey?" 

"  I  guess  I  do.  He  sent  Ruth  away  from  me." 
"  Only  to  give  her  her  chance,  my  son.  Do 
not  forget  that.  He  could  tell  us  what  this  means. 
I  don't  care  anything  about  his  religion.  Your 
Uncle  Catty  thinks  he  was  a  ghost  even  that  day 
at  Fort  Fisher.  I  don't.  He  is  the  Catholic 
Bishop  of  Alden.  You'll  go  to  him  to-morrow. 
He'll  tell  you  what  it  means." 

Bishop  Joseph  Winthrop  of  Alden  was  very 
much  worried.  For  the  third  time  he  picked  up 
and  read  a  telegram  from  the  Mother  Superior  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  Convent  at  Athens,  telling  him 
that  Ruth  Lansing  had  left  the  convent  that  morn- 
ing. But  the  third  perusal  of  the  message  did  not 
give  him  any  more  light  on  the  matter  than  the 
two  previous  readings  had  done. 

Why  should  the  girl  have  gone  away?  What 
could  have  happened?  Only  the  other  day  he 
had  received  a  letter  from  her  telling  of  her  studies 
and  her  progress  and  of  every  new  thing  that  was 
interesting  her. 

The  Bishop  thought  of  the  lonely  hill  home 
where  he  had  found  her  "  Daddy  Tom  "  dying, 
and  where  he  had  buried  him  on  the  hillside. 
Probably  the  girl  would  go  back  and  try  to  live 
there.     And  he  thought  of  the  boy  who  had  told 


S6     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


I  \n>. 


I  ! 


\ri 


him  of  his  love  and  that  he  wanted  to  keep  Ruth 
there  in  the  hills. 

As  he  laid  down  the  telegraph  form,  his  secre- 
tary came  to  the  door  to  tell  him  that  the  boy, 
Jeffrey  Lansing,  was  in  the  waiting  room  asking 
to  see  him  and  refusing  even  to  indicate  the  nature 
of  his  business  to  any  one  but  the  Bishop  him- 
self. 

The  Bishop  was  startled.  He  had  understood 
that  the  young  man  was  in  Albany  at  school. 
Now  he  thought  that  he  would  get  a  very  clear 
light  upon  Ruth  Lansing's  disappearance. 

"  I  came  to  you,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey  when  the 
Bishop  had  given  him  a  chair,  "  because  you  could 
tell  us  what  to  do." 

"  You  mean  you  and  your  —  neighbour,  Ruth 
Lansing?  " 

"Why,  no,  sir.  What  about  her?"  said 
Jeffrey  quickly. 

The  Bishop  gave  the  boy  one  keen,  searching 
look,  and  saw  his  mistake.  The  boy  knew  noth- 
ing. 


"This,"  the  Bishop  answered,  as  he  handed 
Jeffrey  the  open  telegram. 

"  But  where's  she  gone?  Why  did  she  go?  " 
Jeffrey  broke  out,  as  he  read  the  message. 

"  I  thought  you  were  coming  to  tell  me  that." 

"  No,"  said  Jeffrey,  reading  the  Bishop's 
meaning  quickly.  "  She  didn't  write  to  me,  not 
at  all.     I  suppose  the  sisters  wouldn't  have  it. 


B. 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


57 


But  she  wrote  to  my  mother  and  she  didn't  say 
anything  about  leaving  there." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  She  seems 
to  have  gone  away  suddenly.  But,  I  am  forget- 
ting.    You  came  to  talk  to  me." 

"  Yes."  And  Jeffrey  went  on  to  tell,  clearly 
and  shortly,  of  .ne  coming  of  Rogers  and  his 
proposition.  Though  it  hurt,  he  did  not  fail  to 
tell  how  he  had  been  carried  away  by  the  man's 
offer  and  his  flattery.  He  made  it  plain  that  it 
was  only  his  mother's  insight  and  caution  that  had 
held  him  back  from  accepting  the  offer  on  the  in- 
stant. 

The  Bishop,  listening,  was  proud  of  the  down- 
rightness  of  the  young  fellow.  It  was  goou  to 
hear.  When  he  had  heard  all  he  bowed  in  his 
old-fashioned,  stiff  way  and  said: 

"  Your  mother,  young  man,  is  a  rare  and  wise 
woman.  You  will  convey  to  her  my  deepest  re- 
spect. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  all  means,"  he  went  on, 
in  another  tone.     "  But  I  can  soon  find  out." 

He  ran  a  bell,  and  as  his  secretary  opened  the 
door  the  Bishop  said: 

"  Will  you  see,  please,  if  General  Chandler  is 
in  his  office  across  the  street.  If  he  is,  give  him 
my  respects  and  ask  him  to  step  over  here  a  mo- 
ment." 

The  secretary  bowed,  but  hesitated  a  little  in  the 
doorway. 


k 


•111 


I. 


.  B: 


58  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"What  Is  it?"  asked  the  Bishop. 

"  There  is  a  young  girl  out  there,  Bishop.  She 
says  she  must  see  you,  but  she  will  it  give  a  name. 
She  seems  to  be  in  trouble,  or  frigntened." 

Jeffrey  Whiting  was  on  his  feet  and  making  for 
the  door. 

"  Sit  down  where  you  were,  young  man,"  said 
the  Bishop  sharply.  If  Ruth  Lansing  were  out 
there  —  and  the  Bishop  half  believed  that  she  was 

well,  it  might  be  coincidence.     But  it  was  too 

much  for  the  Bishop's  credulity. 

"  Send  the  girl  in  here,"  he  said  shortly. 

Ruth  Lansing  walked  into  the  room  ard  went 
straight  to  the  Bishop.     She  did  not  see  Jeffrey. 

"  I  came  straight  here  all  the  way,"  she  said, 
"  to  tell  you,  Bishop,  that  I  couldn't  stay  in  the 
convent  any  longer.  I  am  going  home.  I  could 
not  stay  there." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Ruth,"  said  the 
Bishop  easily,  "  and  if  you'll  just  turn  around,  I 
think   you'll   see   some   one   who   is   even   more 

pleased." 

Her  startled  cry  of  surprise  and  pleasure  at 
sight  of  Jeffrey  was  abundant  proof  to  the  Bishop 
that  the  coming  of  these  two  to  his  door  was  in- 
deed a  coincidence. 

"Now,"  said  the  Bishop  quickly,  "you  will 
both  sit  down  and  listen.  It  concerns  both  of  you 
deeply.  A  man  is  coming  here  In  a  moment,  Gen- 
eral Chandler.       You  have  both  heard  of  him. 


1^' 


TOE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


59 


He  is  the  political  power  of  this  part  of  the  State. 
He  can,  if  he  will,  tell  us  just  how  serious  your  sit- 
uation is  up  there,  Jeffrey.  Say  nothing.  Just 
listen." 

Ruth  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  sur- 
prise and  perhaps  a  little  resentment.  For  hours 
she  had  been  bracing  her  courage  for  this  ordeal 
of  meeting  the  Bishop,  and  here  she  was  merely 
told  to  sit  down  and  listen  to  something,  she  did 
not  know  what. 

The  Bishop  rose  as  General  Oliver  Chandler 
was  ushered  into  the  room  and  the  two  veterans 
saluted  each  other  with  the  stiffest  of  military  pre- 
cision. 

"  These  are  two  young  friends  of  mine  from 
the  hills.  General,"  said  the  Bishop,  as  he  seated 
his  old  friend.  "  They  both  own  farms  in  the 
Beaver  Run  country.  They  have  come  to  me  to 
find  out  what  the  U.  &  M.  Railroad  wants  with 
options  on  all  that  country.  Can  you,  will  you 
tell  them?" 

The  General  plucked  for  a  moment  at  the  empty 
left  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"  No,  Bishop,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  cannot  give 
out  what  I  know  of  that  matter.  The  interests 
behind  it  are  too  large  for  me.  1  would  not  dare. 
I  do  not  often  have  to  say  that." 

"  No,"  said  the  Bishop  slowly,  "  I  never  heard 
you  say  that  before." 

"  But  I  can  do  this,  Bishop,"  said  the  General, 


I 


I 

1 


Mi 


t 


lii 


60  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

rising.  "  If  you  will  come  over  here  to  the  end 
of  the  room,  I  can  tell  you,  privately,  what  I  know. 
You  can  then  use  your  own  prudence  to  judge 
how  much  you  can  tell  these  young  people." 

The  Bishop  followed  to  the  window  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  where  the  two  men  stood  and 
talked  in  undertones. 

"  Jeffrey,"  said  Ruth  through  teeth  that  gritted 
with  impatience,  "  if  you  don't  tell  me  this  instant 
what  it's  all  about,  I'll  —  I'll  bite  you  1  " 

Jeffrey  laughed  softly.  It  took  just  that  little 
wild  outbreak  of  hers  to  convince  him  that  the 
young  lady  who  had  swept  into  the  room  and  faced 
the  Bishop  was  really  his  little  playmate,  his  Ruth, 
after  all. 

In  quick  whispers,  he  told  her  all  he  knew. 
The  Bishop  walked  to  the  door  with  the  Gen- 
eral, thanking  him.     From  the  door  the  General 
saluted  gravely  and  stalked  away. 

"  The  answer,"  said  the  Bishop  quietly,  as  he 
came  back  to  them,  "  is  one  word —  Iron." 

To  Ruth,  it  seemed  that  these  men  were  making 
a  mysterious  fuss  about  nothing.  But  Jeffrey  saw 
the  whole  matter  instantly. 

"  No  one  knows  how  much  there  is,  or  how  little 
there  is,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  The  man  lied  to  you, 
Jeffrey.  The  road  has  no  eminent  domain.  But 
they  can  get  it  if  they  get  the  options  on  a  large 
part  of  the  farms.     Then,  when  they  have  the 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


6i 


right  of  eminent  domain,  they  will  let  the  options 
lapse  and  buy  the  properties  at  their  own  prices." 

"  I'll  start  back  to  warn  the  people  to-night," 
said  Jeffrey,  jumping  up.  "  Maybe  they  made 
that  offer  to  other  people  besides  mc !  " 

"  Wait,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  th'ere  is  more  to 
think  of.  The  railroad,  if  you  serve  it  well,  will, 
no  doubt,  buy  your  farm  for  much  more  than  it  is 
worth  to  you.  There  is  your  mother  to  be  con- 
sidered first.  And  they  will,  very  likely,  give  you 
a  chance  to  make  a  small  fortune  in  your  commis- 
sions, if  you  are  faithful  to  them.  If  you  go  to 
fight  them,  they  will  probably  crush  you  all  in  the 
end,  and  you  will  be  left  with  little  or  nothing. 
Better  go  slowly,  young  man." 

"What?"  cried  Jeffrey.  "Take  their  bribe! 
Take  their  money,  for  fooling  and  cheating  the 
other  people  out  of  their  homes!  Why,  before 
I'd  do  that,  I'd  leave  that  farm  and  everything 
that's  there  and  go  up  into  the  big  woods  with 
only  my  axe,  as  my  grandfather  did.  And  my 
mother  would  follow  me !  You  know  that !  My 
mother  would  be  glad  to  go  with  me,  with  nothing, 
nothing  in  her  hands!  " 

"  And  so  would  I !  "  said  Ruth,  springing  to  her 
feet.  "  I  would/  I  would! "  she  chanted  de- 
fiantly. 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  said  the  Bishop,  smiling. 

"  But  you  are  not  going  up  into  the  big  woods. 


62    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


•m. 


iift^ 


Jeffrey,"  Ruth  said  demurely.  "  You  are  going 
back  home  to  fight  them.  If  I  could  help  you  I 
would  go  back  with  you.  I  would  not  be  of  any 
use.  So,  I'm  going  back,  to  the  convent,  to  face 
my  fight." 

"  But,  but,"  said  Jeffrey,  "  I  thought  you  were 
running  away." 

"  I  did.  I  was,"  said  Ruth.  "  Last  night  I 
heard  the  voice  of  something  calling  to  me.  It 
was  such  a  big  thing,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  the 
Bishop;  "it  seemed  such  a  pitiless,  strong  thing 
that  I  thought  it  would  crush  me.  It  would  take 
my  life  and  make  me  do  what  it  wanted,  not  what 
I  wanted.  I  was  afraid  of  it.  I  ran  away.  It 
was  like  a  Choir  Unseen  singing  to  me  to  follow, 
and  I  didn't  dare  follow. 

"  But  I  heard  it  again,  just  now  when  Jeffrey 
spoke  that  way.  Now  I  know  what  it  was.  It 
was  the  call  of  life  to  everybody  to  face  life,  to 
take  our  souls  in  our  hands  and  go  forward.  I 
thought  I  could  turn  back.  I  can't.  God,  or 
life  won't  let  us  turn  back." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  child.  Fear  noth- 
ing," said  the  Bishop.  "  I'm  glad  you  came  away, 
to  have  it  out  with  yourself.  And  you  will  be 
very  glad  now  to  go  back." 

"  As  for  you,  young  man,"  he  turned  to 
Jeffrey,  "  I  should  say  that  your  mother  would  be 
proud  to  go  anywhere,  empty-handed  with  you. 
Remember  that,  when  you  are  in  the  worst  of  this 


THE  CHOIR  UNSEEN 


63 


fight  that  is  before  you.  When  you  are  tempted, 
as  you  will  be  tempted,  remember  it.  When  you 
are  hard  pressed,  as  you  will  be  hard  pressed, 
remember  it." 


Ill 


GLOW   OF    DAWN 


Twinkle-tail  was  gliding  up  Beaver  Run  to 
his  breakfast.  It  was  past  the  middle  of  June,  or, 
as  Twinkle-tail  understood  the  matter,  it  was  the 
time  when  the  snow  water  and  the  water  from  the 
spring  rains  had  already  gone  down  to  the  Big 
River:  Beaver  Run  was  still  a  fresh,  rushing 
stream  of  water,  but  it  was  falling  fast.  Soon 
there  would  not  be  enough  water  in  it  to  make  it 
safe  for  a  trout  as  large  as  he.  Then  he  would 
have  to  stay  down  in  the  low,  deep  pond  of  Beaver 
River,  where  the  saw-dust  came  to  bother  him. 

He  was  going  up  to  lie  all  the  morning  in  the 
shallow  little  pond  at  the  very  head  of  Beaver 
Run,  where  the  hot,  sweet  sun  beat  down  and  drew 
the  flies  to  the  surface  of  the  pond.  He  was  very 
fond  of  flies  and  the  pond  was  his  own.  He  had 
made  it  his  own  now  through  four  seasons,  by  his 
speed  and  his  strong  teeth.  Even  the  big,  greedy, 
quarrelsome  pike  that  bullied  the  river  down  below 
did  not  dispute  with  him  this  sweet  upper  stretch 
of  his  own  stream.  No  large  fish  ever  came  up 
this  way  now,  and  he  did  not  bother  with  the  little 
ones.     He  liked  flies  better. 

His  pond  lay  all  clean  and  silvery  and  a  little 

04 


St! 


I 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


65 


t 

f 


cool  yet,  for  the  sun  was  not  high  enough  to  have 
hc.ted  it  through:  a  beautiful  breakfast  room  at 
the  bottom  of  the  great  bowl  of  green  banks  that 
ran  away  up  on  every  side  to  the  rim  of  the  high 
hills. 

Twinkle-tail  was  rather  early  for  breakfast. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  begun  to  draw  the  flies  from 
their  hiding  places  to  buzz  over  the  surface  of 
the  water.  As  he  shot  into  the  centre  of  the  pool 
only  one  fly  was  in  sight.  A  rather  decrepit  look- 
ing black  fly  was  doddering  about  a  cat-tail  stalk 
at  the  edge  of  the  pond.  One  quick  flirt  of  his 
body,  and  Twinkle-tail  slid  out  of  the  water  and 
took  the  fly  in  his  leap.  But  that  was  no  break- 
fast. He  would  have  to  settle  down  by  the  cat- 
tails, in  the  shadows,  and  wait  for  the  flies  to  come. 

Twinkle-tail  missei.  something  from  his  pond 
this  season.  Always,  in  other  years,  two  people, 
a  boy  and  a  girl,  h  id  come  and  watched  him  as  he 
ate  his  breakfast.  The  girl  had  called  him 
Twinkle-tail  the  very  first  time  they  had  seen  him. 
But  Twinkle-tail  had  no  illusions.  They  were  not 
friends  to  him.  He  loved  to  lie  in  the  shadow 
of  the  cat-tails  and  watch  them  as  they  crept  along 
the  ( dge  of  the  bank.  But  he  knew  they  came  to 
catch  him.  When  they  were  there  the  most 
tempting  flies  seemed  to  appear.  Some  of  those 
flies  fell  into  the  ^^ater,  others  just  skimmed  the 
surface  in  the  most  aggravating  and  challenging 
manner.     But  Twinkle-tail  had  always  stayed  in 


66     THE  SlIEl'HERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

the  cat-tails  and  watched,  and  if  the  boy  and  girl 
came  to  his  side  of  the  pond,  then  a  lightning 
twinkle  of  his  tail  was  all  that  told  them  that  he 
had  scooted  out  of  the  pool  and  down  into  the 
stream.  Once  the  girl  had  trailed  a  piece  of 
flashing  red  flannel  across  the  water,  and  iwinkle- 
tail  could  not  resist.  He  leaped  for  it.  A  ter- 
rible hook  caught  him  in  the  side  of  the  mouth! 
In  his  fury  and  terror  he  dove  and  fought  until  he 
broke  the  hook.  He  had  never  forgotten  that 
lesson. 

But  he  was  forgetting  a  little  this  season.  No 
one  came  to  his  pool.  He  was  growing  big  and 
fat,  and  a  little  careless. 

As  he  lay  there  in  the  warming  sand  by  the 
cat-tails,  the  biggest,  juciest  green  bottle  fly  that 
Twinkle-tail  had  ever  seen  came  skimming  down 
to  the  very  line  of  the  water.  It  circled  once. 
Twinkle-tail  did  not  move.  It  circled  twice,  not 
an  inch  from  the  water! 

A  single,  sinuous  flash  of  his  whole  body,  and 
Twinkle-tail  was  out  of  the  water!  He  had  the 
fly  in  his  mouth. 

Then  the  struggle  began. 

Ruth  Lansing  sprang  up,  pole  in  hand,  from  the 
shoulder  of  the  bank  behind  which  she  had  been 
hiding. 

The  trout  dove  and  started  for  the  stream,  the 
line  ripping  through  the  water  like  a  shot. 

The  girl  ran,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  her 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


67 


strong,  slender,  boy-like  body  giving  and  swaying 
cunningly  to  every  tug  of  the  fish 

He  turned  and  shot  swiftly  back  into  the  pool, 
throwing  her  off  her  balance  and  down  into  the 
water.  She  rose  wet  and  angry,  clinging  grimly 
to  the  pole,  and  splashed  her  way  to  the  other  side 
of  the  pond.  She  did  not  dare  to  stand  and  pull 
against  him,  for  fear  of  breaking  the  hook.  She 
could  only  race  around,  giving  him  all  the  line  she 
could  until  he  should  tire  a  little. 

Three  times  they  fought  around  the  circle  of  the 
pool,  the  taut  line  singing  like  a  wire  in  the  wind. 
Ruth's  hand  was  cut  where  she  had  fallen  on  the 
rocks.  She  was  splashed  and  muddy  from  head 
to  foot.  Her  breath  came  In  great,  gulping  sobs. 
But  she  fought  on. 

Twice  he  dragged  her  a  hundred  yards  down 
the  Run,  but  she  headed  him  back  each  time  to  the 
pond  where  she  could  handle  him  better.  She 
had  never  before  fought  so  big  a  fish  all  alone. 
Jeffrey  or  Daddy  Tom  had  always  been  with  her. 
Now  she  found  herself  calling  desperately  under 
her  breath  to  Jeffrey  to  come  to  help  her.  She 
bit  back  the  words  and  took  a  new  hold  on  the 
pole. 

The  trout  was  running  blindly  now  from  side 
to  side  of  the  pond.  He  had  lost  his  cunning. 
He  would  soon  weaken.  But  Ruth  knew  that  her 
strength  was  nearly  gone  too.  She  must  use  her 
head  quickly. 


1! 
1.1 


68    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

She  gathered  herself  on  the  bank  for  one  des- 
perate effort.  She  mus«-  catch  him  as  he  ran 
toward  her  and  try  to  flick  him  out  of  the  water. 
It  was  her  only  chance.  She  might  break  the  hne 
or  the  pole  and  lose  him  entirely,  but  she  would 

try  it. 

Twinkle-tail  came  shooting  through  the  water, 
directly  at  her.  She  suddenly  threw  her  strength 
on  the  pole.  It  bent  nearly  double  but  it  held. 
And  the  fish,  adding  his  own  blind  rush  to  her 
strength,  was  whipped  clear  out  on  to  the  grass. 
Dropping  the  pole,  she  dove  desperately  at  him 
where  he  fought  on  the  very  edge  of  the  bank. 
Finally  she  caught  the  line  a  few  inches  above  his 
mouth,  and  her  prize  was  secure. 

"  It's  you,  Twinkle-tail,"  she  panted,  as  she  held 
him  up  for  a  good  look,  "  sure  enough  1  " 

She  carried  him  back  to  a  large  stone  and 
despatched  him  painlessly  with  a  blunt  stick. 
Then  she  sat  down  to  rest,  for  she  was  weak  and 
dizzy  from  her  struggle. 

Looking  down  at  Twinkle-tail  where  he  lay,  she 

said  aloud: 

"  I  wish  Jeffrey  was  here.  He'll  never  believe 
it  was  you  unless  he  sees  you." 

"  Yes,  that's  him  all  right,"  said  a  voice  behind 
her.     "  I'd  know  him  in  a  thousand." 

She  sprang  up  and  faced  Jeffrey  Whiting. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  come  from?  Your  mother 
told  me  you  wouldn't  be  back  till  to-morrow." 


■Jt    : 


^^^ 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


69 


"  Well,  I  can  go  back  again  and  stay  till  to 


if    you    want    me 


to,"    said    Jeffrey, 


morrow 

smiling.  ,    ,  ,^„      1 

"  Oh,  Jeff,  you  know  I'm  glad  to  see  you.     1 

was  awfully  disappointed  when  \^-l^'^'^^^, 
found  that  you  were  away  up  m  the  h^  1-  "«; 
is  your  fight  going  on?  And  look  at  '^^;'"^^l; 
tail,"  she  hurrfed  on  a  little  nervously  for  Jeffrey 
had  her  hand  and  was  drawing  her  determmcdly 
to  him.  She  reached  for  the  trout  and  held  h.m 
UD  strategically  between  them. 

"Oh,  Fish!"  said  Jeffrey  discontentedly  as  he 
saw  himself  beaten  by  her  ruse. 

The  girl  laughed  provokmgly  up  >nto  ^  s^" 
lenlv  handsome  face.     Then  she  seemed  to  re- 
n     and  with  a  friendly  little  tug  at  h.s  arm  led 
him  over  to  the  edge  of  the  pool  and  made  h.m  s.t 

'^°"  Now  tell  me,"  she  commanded,  "all  about 
your  battle  with  the  railroad  people.  Your 
mother  told  me  some  things,  but  1  want  it  all, 

^'Tut^  Jeff reV  was  still  unappeased.     He  looked 
at  her  dress 'and  shoes  and  said  with  a  show  of 

""Ruth!  you  didn't  catch  Twinkle-tail  fair  on 
your  line.  You  just  walked  into  the  pond  and  got 
him  in  a  corner  and  kicked  him  to  death  brutally. 
I  know  you  did.     You're  always  cruel. 

Ruth   laughed,    and   showed   him   the   jagged 


ill 

■  '1 


1 '' 


70    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

cut   In   her   hand   where   she   had   fallen   on   the 

rocks. 

Instantly   he   was   all   interest   and   contrition. 
He  must  wash  the  hand  and  dress  it!     But  she 
made  him  sit  where  he  was,  while  she  knelt  down 
by  the  water  and  bathed  the  smarting  hand  and 
bound  it  with  her  handkerchief. 
"  Now,"  she  said,  "  tell  me." 
"  Well,"  he  began,  when  he  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  delay,  "  the  very  night  that 
the  Bishop  of  Alden  told  me  that  they  had  found 
iron  in  the  hills  here  and  that  they  were  going  to 
try  to  push  us  all  out  of  our  homes,  I  started  out 
to  warn  the  people.     I  found  I  wasn't  the  only 
man  that  the  railroad  had  tried  to  buy.     They  had 
Rafe  Gadbeau,  you  know  he's  a  kind  of  a  political 
boss  of  the  French  around  French  Village;  and  a 
man  named  Sayres  o"er  on  Forked  Lake. 

"  Gadbeau  had  no  farm  of  his  own  to  sell,  but 
he'd  been  spending  money  around  free,  and  I  knew 
the  railroad  must  have  given  it  to  him  outright. 
I  told  him  what  I  had  found  out,  about  the  iron 
and  what  the  land  would  be  worth  if  the  farmers 
held  on  to  it.  But  1  might  as  well  have  held  my 
breath.  He  didn't  care  anything  about  the  inter- 
ests of  the  people  that  had  land.  He  was  getting 
paid  well  for  every  option  that  he  could  get.  And 
he  was  going  to  get  all  he  cculd.  I  will  have 
trouble  with  that  man  yet. 

"  The  other  man,  Sayres,  is  a  big  land-owner, 


k:u 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


71 


I 


w 


K 


1 


m 


and  a  good  man.  They  had  fooled  him,  just  as 
that  man  Rogers  I  told  you  about  fooled  me.  He 
had  started  out  in  good  faith  to  help  the  railroad 
get  the  properties  over  on  that  side  of  the  moun- 
tains, thinking  it  was  the  best  thing  for  the  people 
to  do  to  sell  out  at  once.  When  I  told  him  about 
their  finding  iron,  he  saw  that  they  had  made  a 
catspaw  of  him;  and  he  was  the  maddest  man  you 

ever  saw. 

"  He  is  a  big  man  over  that  way,  and  his  word 
was  worth  ten  of  mine.  He  went  right  out  with 
me  to  warn  every  man  who  had  a  piece  of  land 
not  to  sign  anything.  ^ 

"  Three  weeks  ago  Rogers,  who  is  handlmg 
the  whole  business  for  the  railroad,  came  up  here 
and  had  me  arrested  on  charges  of  extortion  and 
conspiring  to  intimidate  the  land-owners.  They 
took  me  down  to  Lowville,  but  Judge  Clemmons 
couldn't  find  anything  in  the  charges.  So  I  was  let 
go.  But  they  are  not  through.  They  will  find 
some  way  to  get  me  away  from  here  yet. 

'•  How  does  it  stand  now?  "  said  Ruth  thought- 
fully.    "  Have  they  actually  started  to  build  the 

railroad? "  •  1       r 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  know  they  have  the  right  ot 
way  to  run  the  road  through.  But  they  wouldn't 
build  it,  at  least  not  for  years  yet,  only  that  they 
w.mt  to  get  this  iron  property  opened  up.  Why, 
the  road  is  to  run  from  Welden  to  French  ViHafze 
and  there  is  not  a  single  town  on  the  whole  Imc ! 


11 


72     THE  SHHPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


X% 


The  road  wouldn't  have  business  enough  to  keep 
the  rust  off.  They're  building  the  road  just  the 
same,  so  that  shows  that  they  intend  to  get  our 
property  some  way,  no  matter  what  we  do.  And 
I  suppose  they  will,  somehow,"  he  added  sullenly. 
"  They  always  do,  I  guess." 

"  But  the  people,"  said  Ruth,  "  can't  you  get 
them  all  to  join  and  agree  to  sell  at  a  fair  price? 
Wouldn't  that  be  all  right?  " 

"  They  don't  want  to  buy.  They  won't  buy 
at  any  fair  price.  They  only  want  to  get  options 
enough  to  show  the  Legislature  and  the  Governor, 
and  then  they  will  be  granted  eminent  domain  and 
they  can  have  the  land  condemned  and  can  buy  it 
at  the  price  of  wild  land." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  remember  now.  That's  what  the 
Bishop  said.  Isn't  it  strange,"  she  went  on 
slowly,  "  how  he  seems  to  come  into  everything 
we  do.  How  he  saved  my  Daddy  Tom's  life  that 
time  at  Fort  Fisher.  And  how  he  came  here  that 
night  when  Daddy  was  hurt.  And  how  he  picked 
us  up  and  turned  us  around  and  sent  me  off  to 
convent.  And  now  how  he  seems  to  come  into  all 
this. 

"  Everybody  calls  him  the  Shepherd  of  the 
North,"  she  went  on.  "  I  wonder  if  he  comes 
into  the  lives  of  all  the  people  that  way.  At  the 
convent  everybody  seems  to  think  of  him  as  be- 
longing to  them  personally.  T  resented  it  at  first, 
because  I  thought  I  had  more  reason  to  know  him 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


73 


than  anybody.     But  I  found  that  everybody  felt 

the  same  way." 

"He's  just  like  the  Catholic  Church,  said 
Jeffrey  suddenly,  and  a  little  sharply;  "  he  comes 
into  everything."  ^^ 

"  Why,  Jeffrey,"  said  Ruth  in  surprise,  what 
do  you  know  about  the  Church?  " 

"  I  know,"  he  answered.  "  I've  read  some. 
And  I've  had  to  deal  a  lot  with  the  French  people 
up  toward  French  Village.  And  I've  talked  with 
their  priest  up  there.  You  know  you  have  to  talk 
to  the  priest  before  it's  any  use  talking  to  them. 
That's  the  way  with  the  Catholic  Church.  It 
comes  into  everything.     I  don't  like  it. 

He  sat  looking  across  the  pool  for  a  moment, 
while  Ruth  quietly  studied  the  stubborn,  settling 
lines  of  his  face.     She  saw  that  a  few  months  had 
made  a  big  change  in  the  boy  and  playmate  that 
she  had  known.     He  was  no  longer  the  bright- 
faced,  clear-eyed  boy.     His  face  was  turning  into 
a  man's  face.     Sharp,  jagged  lines  of  temper  and 
of   harshness  were   coming  into   it.     It  showed 
strength  and  doggedness  and  will,  along  with  some 
of  the  dour  grimness  of  his  fathers.     She  did  not 
dislike  the  change  altogether.     But  it  began  to 
make  her  a  little  timid.     She  was  quick  to  see  from 
it  that  there  would  be  certain  limits  beyond  which 
she  could  not  play  with  this  new  man  that  she 

found. 

"  It's  all  right  to  be  religious,"  he  went  on  ar- 


slt- 


'i  f 
1-1 


m 


74     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

gumentatively.  "  Mother's  religious.  And  Aunt 
Letty's  just  full  of  it.  But  it  don't  interfere  with 
their  lives.  It's  all  right  to  have  a  preacher  for 
marrying  or  dying  or  something  like  that;  and  to 
go  to  hear  him  if  you  want  to.  But  the  Catholic 
Church  comes  right  in  to  where  those  people  live. 
It  tells  them  what  to  do  and  what  to  think  about 
everything.  They  don't  dare  speak  without  look- 
ing back  to  it  to  find  out  what  they  must  say.  I 
don't  like  it." 

"  Why,  Jeffrey,  I'm  a  Catholic!  " 

"  I  kuezv  it !  "  he  said  stubbornly.  "  I  knew  it ! 
I  knew  there  was  something  that  had  changed  you. 
And  I  might  have  known  it  was  that." 

"That's  funny!"  said  the  girl,  breaking  in 
quickly.  "  When  you  came  I  was  just  wondering 
to  myself  why  it  had  not  seemed  to  change  me  at 
all.  I  think  I  was  half  disappointed  with  myself, 
to  think  that  I  had  gone  through  a  wonderful 
experience  and  it  had  left  me  just  the  same  as  I 
was  before." 

"  But  it  has  changed  you,"  he  persisted.  "  And 
it's  going  to  change  you  a  lot  more.  I  can  see  it. 
Please,  Ruth,"  he  said,  suddenly  softening,  "  you 
won't  let  it  change  you?  You  won't  let  it  make 
any  difference,  with  us,  I  mean?  " 

The  girl  looked  soberly  and  steadily  up  into  his 

face,  and  said: 

"  No,  Jeffrey.  It  won't  make  any  difference 
with  us,  in  the  way  you  mean. 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


75 


"  So  long  as  we  are  what  we  are,"  she  said  again 
after  a  pause,  "  we  will  be  just  the  same  to  each 
other.  If  it  should  make  something  different  out 
of  me  than  what  I  am,  then,  of  course,  I  would 
not  be  the  same  to  you.  Or  if  you  should  change 
into  something  else,  then  you  would  not  be  the 
same  to  me. 

"  It's  too  soon,"  she  continued  decisively. 
"  Nothing  is  clear  to  me,  yet.  I've  just  entered 
into  a  great,  wonderful  world  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing that  I  never  knew  existed.  Where  it  leads 
to,  I  do  not  know.  When  I  do  know,  Jeffrey 
dear,  I'll  tell  you." 

He  looked  up  sharply  at  her  as  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  and  he  understood  that  she  had  said  the  last 
word  that  was  to  be  said.     He  saw  something  in 
her  face  with  which  he  did  not  dare  to  argue. 
He  got  up  saying : 

"  I  have  to  be  gone.  I'm  glad  I  found  you  here 
at  the  old  place.  I'll  be  back  to-night  to  help  you 
eat  the  trout." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 
"  Over  to  Wilbur's  Fork.     There's  a  couple  of 
men  over  there  that  are  shaky.     I've  had  to  keep 
after  them  or  they'd  be  listening  to  Rafe  Gadbeau 
and  letting  their  land  go." 

"  But,"  Ruth  exclaimed,  *'  now  when  they 
know,  can't  they  see  what  is  to  their  own  interest ! 
Are  they  V.!ind?" 

"  I  know,"  said  Jeffrey  dully.     "  But  you  know 


i 


It  ■'« 


76    THH  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

how  it  is  with  those  people.  Their  land  is  hard 
to  work.  It  is  poor  land.  They  have  to  scratch 
and  scrape  for  a  little  money.  They  don't  see 
many  dollars  together  from  one  year's  end  to  the 
other.  Even  a  little  money,  ready,  green  money, 
shaken  in  their  faces  looks  awful  big  to  them." 

"Good    luck,    then,    Jeff,"  she    said   cheerily; 
"  and  get  back  early  if  you  can." 

*'  Sure,"  he  said  easily  as  he  picked  up  his  hat. 
•'  And,  say,  Ruth."  He  turned  back  quietly  to 
her.  "If  —  i f  I  shouldn't  be  back  to-night,  or  to- 
morrow; why,  watch  Rafe  Gadbeau.  Will  you? 
I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  mother.  And  Uncle 
Catty,  well,  he's  not  very  sharp  sometimes.  Will 
you?" 

"  Of    course 
please." 

"  Oh,  sure,"  he  sang  back,  as  he  walked  quickly 
around  the  edge  of  the  pond  and  slipped  into  the 
alder  bushes  through  v/hich  ran  the  trail  that  went 
up  over  the  ridge  to  the  Wilbur  Fork  country  on 
the  other  side. 

Ruth  stood  watching  him  as  he  pushed  sturdily 
up  the  opposite  slope,  his  grey  felt  hat  and  wide 
shoulders  showing  above  the  undergrowth. 

This  boy  was  a  different  being  from  the  Jeffrey 
that  she  had  left  when  she  went  down  to  the  con- 
vent five  months  before.  She  could  see  it  in  his 
walk,  in  the  way  he  shouldered  the  bushes  aside 
just  as  she  had  seen  it  in  his  face  and  his  talk. 


I    will.     But    be    careful,    Jeff, 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


77 


lie  was  fighting  with  a  power  that  he  had  found 
to  be  stronger  and  bigger  than  himself.  He  was 
not  discouraged.  He  had  no  thought  of  giving 
up.  But  the  airy  edge  of  his  boyish  confidence 
in  himself  was  gone.  He  had  become  grim  and 
thoughtful  and  determined.  He  had  settled 
down  to  a  long,  dogged  struggle. 

He  had  asked  her  to  watch  Rafe  Gadbeau. 
How  much  did  he  mean?  Why  should  he  have 
said  this  to  her?  Would  it  not  have  been  better 
to  have  warned  some  of  the  men  that  were  as- 
sociated with  him  in  his  fight?  And  what  was 
there  to  be  feared?  She  laughed  at  the  idea  of 
physical  fear  in  connection  with  Jeffrey.  Why, 
nothing  ever  happened  in  the  hills,  anyway. 
Crimes  of  violence  were  never  heard  of.  It  was 
true,  the  lumber  jacks  were  rough  when  they  came 
down  with  the  log  drives  in  the  spring.  But  they 
only  fought  among  themselves.  And  they  did  not 
stop  in  the  hills.  They  hurried  on  down  to  the 
towns  where  they  could  spend  their  money. 

What  had  Jeffrey  to  fear? 

Yet,  he  must  have  meant  a  good  deal.  He 
would  not  have  spoken  to  her  unless  he  had  good 
reason  to  think  that  something  might  happen  to 
him. 

Withal,  Ruth  was  not  deceived.  She  knew  the 
temper  of  the  hills.  The  men  were  easy-going. 
They  were  slow  of  speech.  They  were  generally 
ruled  by  their  more  energetic  women.      But  they 


J 


78     THE  SHEPHKRD  OF  THE  NORTH 

or  their  fathers  had  all  been  fighting  men,  like  her 
own  father.  And  they  were  rooted  in  the  soil  of 
the  hills.  Any  man  or  any  power  that  attempted 
to  drive  them  from  the  land  which  their  hands  had 
cleared  and  made  into  homes,  where  the  bones  of 
their  fathers  and  mothers  lay,  would  have  to 
reckon  with  them  as  bitter,  stubborn  fighting  men. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  was  just  coming  to  the  bare  top 
of  the  ridge.  In  another  moment  he  would  drop 
down  the  other  side  out  of  sight.  She  wondered 
whether  he  would  turn  and  wave  to  her;  or  had  he 
forgotten  that  she  would  surely  be  standing  where 
he  had  left  her? 

He  had  not  forgotten.  He  turned  and  waved 
briskly  to  her.  Then  he  stepped  down  quickly 
out  of  sight.  His  act  was  brusque  and  business- 
like. It  showed  that  he  remembered.  He  could 
hardly  have  seen  her  standing  there  in  all  the 
green  by  the  pond.  He  had  just  known  that  she 
was  there.  But  it  showed  something  else,  too. 
He  had  plunged  down  over  the  edge  of  the  hill 
upon  a  business  with  which  his  mind  was  filled,  to 
the  exclusion,  almost,  of  her  and  of  everything 
else. 

The  girl  did  not  feel  any  of  the  little  pique  or 
resentment  that  might  have  been  very  natural. 
It  was  so  that  she  would  wish  him  to  go  about  the 
business  that  was  going  to  be  so  serious  for  all  of 
them.  But  it  gave  her  a  new  and  startling  flash 
of  insight  into  what  was  coming. 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


79 


She  had  always  thought  of  her  hills  as  the  place 
where  peace  lived.  Out  in  the  great  crowded 
market  places  of  the  world  she  knew  men  fought 
each  other  for  money.  But  why  do  that  in  the 
hills?  There  was  a  little  for  all.  And  a  man 
could  only  get  as  much  as  his  own  labour  and  good 
judgment  would  make  for  him  out  of  the  land. 

Now  she  saw  that  it  was  not  a  matter  of  hills 
or  of  cities.  Wherever,  in  the  hills  or  the  city  or 
in  the  farthest  desert,  there  was  wealth  or  the  hope 
of  wealth,  there  greedy  men  with  power  would 
surely  come  to  look  for  it  and  take  it.  That  was 
why  men  fought.  Wealth,  even  the  scent  of 
wealth  whetted  their  appetites  and  drew  them  on 
to  battle. 

A  cloud  passed  between  her  and  the  morning 
sun.  She  felt  the  premonition  of  tragedy  and  suf- 
fering lowering  down  like  a  storm  on  her  hills. 
How  foolishly  she  had  thought  that  all  life  and  all 
the  great,  seething  business  of  life  was  to  bo  done 
down  in  the  towns  and  the  cities.  Here  was  life 
now,  with  its  pressure  and  its  ugly  passions,  push- 
ing right  into  the  very  hills. 

She  shivered  as  she  picked  up  her  prize  of  the 
morning  and  her  fishing  tackle  and  started  slowly 
up  the  hill  toward  her  home. 

Her  farm  had  been  rented  to  Norman  Apgarth 
with  the  understanding  that  Ruth  was  to  spend  the 
summer  there  in  her  own  home.  The  rent  was 
enough  to  give  Ruth  what  little  money  she  needed 


MICROCOPY    RESCIUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHA„  .   No    2 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


I  2.8 

III  3.2 
II 3  6 

IIM 


1.4 


12.5 
2.2 

12.0 
1.8 

1.6 


j=  APPLIED  IM^GE     IrK 

^^_  't^'jj    Eas!    ^      1    Street 

S'aS  -jct"»?ster,    Ne*    York  '4609        uSA 

'«SS  -If:    462  -    O.WO  -  Phone 

^S  ■'' "^'    ^'83    ■  "^389  -  Fax 


8o  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


m 


m. 


1 , 

I,  : 


for  clothes  and  to  pay  her  modest  expenses  at  the 
convent  at  Athens.  So  her  life  was  arranged  for 
her  at  least  up  to  the  time  when  she  should  have 
finished  school. 

It  seemed  very  strange  to  come  home  and  find 
her  home  in  the  hands  of  strangers.  It  was  odd 
to  be  a  sort  of  guest  in  the  house  that  she  had 
ruled  and  managed  from  almost  the  time  that  she 
was  a  baby.  It  would  be  very  hard  to  keep  from 
telling  Mrs.  Apgarth  where  things  belonged  and 
how  other  things  should  be  done.  It  would  be 
hard  to  stand  by  and  see  others  driving  the  horses 
that  had  never  known  a  hand  but  hers  and  Daddy 
Tom's.  Still  she  had  been  very  glad  to  come 
home.  It  was  her  place.  It  held  all  the  mem- 
ories and  all  the  things  that  connected  her  wMth 
her  own  people.  Sht  wanted  to  be  able  always 
to  come  back  to  it  and  call  it  her  own.  Looking 
down  over  it  from  the  crest  of  the  hill,  at  the  little 
clump  of  trees  under  which  lay  her  Daddy  Tom 
and  her  mother,  at  the  little  house  that  had  seen 
their  love  and  in  which  she  had  been  born,  she 
could  understand  the  fierceness  with  which  men 
would  fight  to  hold  the  farms  and  homes  which 
were  threatened. 

Until  now  she  had  hardly  realised  that  those 
men  whom  people  vaguely  called  "  the  railroad  " 
would  want  to  take  her  home  and  farm  away  from 
her.     Now  it  came  suddenly  home  to  her  and  she 


I 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


8i 


felt  a  swelling  rage  of  indignation  rising  in  her 
throat.  She  hurried  down  the  hill  to  the  house, 
as  though  she  saw  it  already  threatened. 

She  deftly  threw  her  fishpole  up  on  to  the  roof 
of  the  wood  shed  and  went  around  to  the  front  of 
the  house.  There  she  found  Mrs.  Apgarth  weed- 
ing in  what  had  been  Ruth's  own  flower  beds. 

"  Why,  what  a  how-dye-do  you  did  give  us,  Miss 
Ruth !  "  the  woman  exclaimed  at  sight  of  her. 
"  I  called  you  three  times,  and  when  you  didn't 
answer  I  went  to  your  door;  and  there  you  were 
gone!  I  told  Norman  Apgarth  somebody  must 
have  took  you  off  in  the  night." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Ruth.  "No  danger.  I'm 
used  to  getting  up  early,  you  see.  So  I  just  took 
some  cakes —  Didn't  you  miss  them?  —  and 
some  milk  and  slipped  out  without  waking  any  one. 
I  wanted  to  catch  this  fish.  Jeffrey  Whiting  and  I 
tried  to  catch  him  for  four  years.  And  I  had  to 
do  it  myself  this  morning." 

"  So  young  Whiting's  gone  away,  eh?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Ruth  quickly.  "  He  went 
over  to  Wilbur's  Fork  about  half  an  hour  ago. 
Who  said  he'd  gone  away?  " 

"Oh,  nobody,"  said  the  woman  hastily;  "it's 
only  what  they  was  sayin'  up  at  French  Village 
yesterday," 

"  What  were  they  saying?  "  Ruth  demanded. 

"Oh,   just   talk,    I    suppose,"    Mrs.    Apgarth 


I  4: 


82  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

evaded.  *'  Still,  I  dunno's  I  blame  him.  I  guess 
if  I  got  as  much  money  as  they  say  he's  got  out  of 
It,  I'd  skedaddle,  too." 

Ruth  stepped  over  and  caught  the  woman 
sharply  by  the  arm. 

"What  did  they  say?  Tell  me,  please." 
Mrs.  Apgarth  saw  that  the  girl  was  trembling 
with  excitement  and  anxiety.  She  saw  that  she 
herself  had  said  too  much,  or  too  little.  She 
could  not  stop  at  that.  She  must  tell  everything 
now. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  "  they  say  he's  just  fooled 
the  people  up  over  their  eyes." 

"  How?  "  said  Ruth  impatiently.     "  Tell  me." 

*'  He's  been  agoin'  round  holdin'  the  people 
back  and  gettin'  them  to  swear  that  they  won't 
sign  a  paper  or  sell  a  bit  of  land  to  the  railroad. 
Now  it  turns  out  he  was  just  keepin'  the  rest  of 
the  people  back  till  he  could  get  a  good  big  lot  of 
money  from  the  railroad  for  his  own  farm  and 
for  this  one  of  yours.  Oh,  yes,  they  say  he's  sold 
this  farm  and  his  own  and  five  other  ones  that  he'd 
got  hold  of,  for  four  times  what  they're  worth. 
And  that  gives  the  railroad  enough  to  work  on, 
so  the  rest  of  the  people'll  just  have  to  sell  for 
what  they  can  get.     He's  gone  now;  skipped  out." 

"  But  he  has  not  gone!  "  Ruth  snapped  out  in- 
dignantly.    '*  I  saw  him  only  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course,"  said  the  woman  know- 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


83 


ingly,  "  you'd  know  more  about  it  than  anybody 
else.     It's  all  talk,  I  suppose." 

Ruth  blushed  and  dropped  the  fish  forgotten 
on  the  grass.     She  said  shortly: 

*'  I'm  going  to  spend  the  day  with  Mrs.  Whit- 
ing." 

"  Oh,  then,  don't  say  a  word  to  her  about  this. 
She's  an  awful  good  neighbour.  I  wouldn't  for 
the  world  have  her  think  that  I  — " 

"  Why,  it  doesn't  matter  at  all,"  said  Ruth,  as 
she  turned  toward  the  road.  "  You  only  said 
what  people  were  saying." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  for  anything,"  the  woman 
called  nervously  after  her,  "  have  her  think  that  — 
And  what'U  I  do  with  this?  " 

"  Eat  it,"  said  Ruth  over  her  shoulder.  The 
prize  for  which  she  had  fought  so  desperately  in 
the  early  morning  meant  nothing  to  her  now. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  did  not  come  home  that  night. 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  one  of  the  longest 
days  of  the  year,  Ruth  sat  reading  in  the  old  place 
on  the  hill,  where  Jeffrey  would  be  sure  to  find 
her.  Suddenly,  when  it  was  full  dark,  she  knew 
that  he  would  not  come. 

She  did  not  try  to  argue  with  herself.  She  did 
not  fight  back  the  nervous  feeling  that  something 
had  happened.  She  was  sure  that  she  had  been 
all  day  expecting  it.  When  the  moon  came  up 
over  the  hill  and  the  long  purple  shadows  of  the 


84  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

elm  trees  oi.  the  crest  came  stalking  down  in  the 
white  light,  she  went  miserably  into  the  house  and 
up  to  the  little  room  they  had  fitted  up  for  her  in 
the  loft  of  her  own  home. 

She  cried  herself  into  a  wearied,  troubled  sleep. 
But  with  the  elasticity  of  youth  and  health  she  was 
awake  at  the  first  hint  of  morning,  and  the  cloud 
of  the  night  had  passed. 

She  dressed  and  hurried  down  into  the  yard 
where  Norman  Apgarth  was  just  stirring  about 
with  his  milk  pails.  She  was  glad  to  face  daylight 
and  action.  A  man  had  put  his  trust  in  her  be- 
fore all  others.  She  was  eager  to  answer  to  his 
faith. 

"  Where  is  Brom  Bones  ?  "  she  demanded  of  the 
still  drowsy  Apgarth  as  she  caught  him  crossing 
the  yard  from  the  milk  house. 

"  The  colt?  He's  up  in  the  back  pasture,  just 
around  the  knob  of  the  mountain.  What  was  you 
calc'latin'  to  do  with  him,  Miss?  " 

"  I  want  to  use  him,"  said  Ruth.     "  May  I  ?  " 

"Use  him?  Certainly,  if  you  want  to.  But, 
say.  Miss,  that  colt  ain't  been  driv'  since  the 
Spring's  work.  An'  he's  so  fat  an'  silky  he's  liable 
to  act  foolish." 

"  I'm  going  to  ride  him,"  said  Ruth  briefly,  as 
she  stepped  to  the  horse  barn  door  for  a  bridle. 

"  Now,  say.  Miss,"  the  man  opposed  feebly, 
"  you  could  take  the  brown  pony  just  as  well;  I 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


85 


don't  need  her  a  bit.  And  I  tell  you  that  colt  is 
just  a  lun-^/-ic,  when  he's  been  idle  so  long." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Ruth,  as  she  started  up  the 
hill.  "  But  I  thinic  I'll  find  work  enough  to  satisfy 
even  Brom  Bones  to-day." 

The  big  black  colt  followed  her  peaceably  down 
the  mountain,  and  stood  champing  at  the  door 
while  she  went  in  to  get  something  to  eat.  When 
she  brought  out  a  shining  new  side  saddle  he 
looked  suspiciously  at  the  strange  thing,  but  he 
made  no  serious  objection  as  she  fastened  it  on. 
Ruth  herself,  when  she  had  buckled  it  tight,  stood 
looking  doubtfully  at  it.  A  side  saddle  was  as 
new  to  her  as  it  was  to  the  horse.  She  had  bought 
it  on  her  way  home  the  other  day,  as  a  concession 
to  the  fact  that  she  was  now  a  young  lady  who 
could  no  longer  go  stampeding  over  the  hills  on  a 
bare-backed  horse. 

She  mounted  easily,  but  Brom  Bones,  seeming 
to  know  in  the  way  of  his  kind  that  she  was  uneasy 
and  uncomfortable,  began  at  once  to  act  badly. 
His  intention  seemed  to  be  to  walk  into  the  open 
well  on  his  hind  feet.  The  girl  caught  a  short 
hold  on  her  lines  and  cut  him  sharply  across  the 
ear.  He  wheeled  on  two  feet  and  bolted  for  the 
hill,  clearing  the  woodshed  by  mere  inches. 

The  path  led  straight  up  to  the  top  of  the  slope. 
Ruth  did  not  try  to  hold  him.  The  sooner  he  ran 
the  conceit  out  of  himself,  she  thought,  the  better. 


! 


86  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


<b 


I 


He  hurled  himself  down  the  other  slope,  past 
the  pool,  and  into  the  trail  which  Jeffrey  had  taken 
yesterday.  It  was  break-neck  riding,  in  a  strange 
saddle.  But  the  girl's  anxiety  rose  with  the  ex- 
citement of  the  horse's  wild  rush,  so  that  when 
they  reached  the  top  of  the  divide  where  she  had 
last  seen  Jeffrey  it  was  the  horse  and  not  the  girl 
that  was  ready  to  settle  down  to  a  sober  and  safer 
pace. 

Her  common  sense  told  her  that  she  was  prob- 
ably foolish;  that  Jeffrey  had  merely  stayed  over 
night  somewhere  and  that  she  would  meet  him  on 
the  way.  But  another  and  a  subtler  sense  kept 
whispering  to  her  to  hurry  on,  that  she  was 
needed,  that  the  good  name,  if  not  the  life,  of  the 
boy  she  loved  was  in  danger! 

She  had  found  out  from  Mrs.  Whiting  just 
who  were  the  men  whom  Jeffrey  had  gone  to  see. 
But  she  did  not  know  how  she  could  dash  up  to 
their  doors  and  demand  to  know  where  he  was. 
It  was  eleven  miles  up  the  stony  trail  that  followed 
Wilbur's  Fork,  and  the  girl's  nerves  now  keyed 
up  to  expect  she  knew  not  what  jangled  at  every 
turn  of  the  road.  Jeffrey  had  meant  to  come 
straight  back  this  way  to  her.  That  he  had  not 
done  so  meant  that  something  had  stopped  him  on 
the  way.     What  was  it? 

On  one  side  the  trail  was  flanked  by  giant  hem- 
locks and  the  underbrush  was  grown  into  an  im- 
penetrable wall.     On  the  other  it  ran  sheer  along 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


87 


the  edge  of  Wilbur's  Fork,  a  rock-bottomed,  rush- 
ing stream  that  tumbled  and  brawled  its  way  down 
the  long  slope  of  the  country. 

Time  after  time  the  girl  shuddered  and  gripped 
her  saddle  as  she  pushed  on  past  a  place  where  the 
undergrowth  came  right  down  to  the  trail,  and 
six  feet  away  the  path  dropped  off  thirty  feet  to 
the  rock  bed  of  the  stream.  She  caught  herself 
leaning  across  the  saddle  to  look  down.  A  man 
might  have  stood  in  the  brush  as  Jeffrey  came 
carelessly  along.  And  that  man  might  have 
swung  a  cant-stick  once  —  a  single  blow  at  the 
back  of  the  head  —  and  Jeffrey  would  have  gone 
stumbling  and  falling  over  the  edge  of  the  path. 
There  would  not  be  even  the  sign  of  a  strug- 
gle. 

Once  she  stopped  and  took  hold  of  her  nerves. 

*'  Ruth  Lansing,"  she  scolded  aloud,  *'  you're 
making  a  little  fool  of  yourself.  You've  been 
down  there  in  that  convent  living  among  a  lot  of 
girls,  and  you're  forgetting  that  these  hills  are 
your  own,  that  there  never  was  and  never  is  any 
danger  in  them  for  us  who  belong  here.  Just 
keep  that  in  your  mind  and  hustle  on  about  your 
business." 

When  she  came  out  into  the  open  country  near 
the  head  of  the  Fork  she  met  old  Darius  Wil- 
bur turning  his  cattle  to  pasture.  The  old  man 
did  not  know  the  girl,  but  he  knew  the  Lansing 
colt  and  he  looked  sharply  at  the  steaming  withers 


'W 


3 
if 


B 


88     TUli  SIlKl'HERD  OF  Till'   NORTH 


m 


of  Brom  Bones  before  he  would  give  any  atten- 
tion to  her  question. 

"  What's  the  tarnation  hurry,  young  lady?  "  he 
inquired  exasperatingly.  "Jeff  Whiting?  Yes, 
he  was  here  yest'day.     Why?" 

"  Did  he  start  home  by  this  trail?  "  asked  Ruth 
eagerly.     '*  Or  did  he  go  on  up  country?  " 
"  He  went  on  up  country." 
Ruth  headed  Brom  Bones  up  the  trail  again 
without  a  word. 

"But  stay!"  the  old  man  yelled  after  her, 
when  she  had  gone  twenty  yards.  "  He  came 
back  again." 

Ruth  pulled  around  so  sharply  that  she  nearly 
threw  Brom  Bones  to  his  knees. 

"  Didn't  ask  me  that,"  the  old  man  chortled,  as 
she  came  back,  "but  if  I  didn't  tell  you  I  reckon 
you'd  run  that  colt  to  death  up  the  hills." 
"  Then  he  did  take  the  Forks  trail  back." 
"  Didn't  do  that,  nuther." 
"Then  where  did  he  go?     Please  tell  me!" 
cried  the  girl,  the  tears  of  vexation  rising  into  her 
voice. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  girl?  He  crossed 
the  Fork  just  there,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing, 
"  and  he  took  over  the  hill  for  French  Village. 
You  his  wife?     "i  ou're  might)'  young." 

But  Ruth  did  not  hear.  She  and  Brom  Bones 
were  already  slipping  down  the  rough  bank  in  a 
shower  of  dirt  and  stones. 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


89 


In  the  middle  of  the  ford  she  stopped  and 
loosened  the  bridle,  let  the  colt  drink  a  little,  then 
drove  him  across,  up  the  other  bank  and  on  up  the 
stiff  slope. 

She  did  not  know  the  trail,  but  she  knew  the 
general  run  of  the  country  that  way  and  had  no 
doubt  of  finding  her  road. 

Now  she  told  herself  that  it  was  certainly  a 
wild  goose  chase.  Jeffrey  had  merely  found  that 
he  had  to  see  some  one  in  French  Village  and  had 
gone  there  and,  of  course,  had  spent  the  night 
there. 

By  the  time  she  had  come  over  the  ridge  of  the 
hill  and  was  dropping  down  through  the  heavily 
wooded  country  toward  French  Village,  she  had 
begun  to  feel  just  a  little  bit  foolish.  But  she  sud- 
denly remembered  that  it  was  Saint  John  the  Bap- 
tist's day.  It  was  not  a  holy  day  of  obligation 
but  she  knew  it  was  a  feast  day  in  French  Village. 
There  would  be  Mass.  She  should  have  gone, 
anyway.  And  she  would  hear  with  her  own  ears 
the  things  they  were  saying  about  Jeffrey  Whiting. 

Arsene  LaComb  sat  on  the  steps  of  his  store 
in  French  Village  in  the  glory  of  a  stiff  white  shirt 
and  a  festal  red  vest.  The  store  was  closed,  of 
course,  in  honour  of  the  day.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
would  put  on  his  black  coat,  in  his  official  capacity 
of  trustee  of  the  church,  and  march  solemnly  over 
to  ring  the  bell  for  Mass. 

The  spectacle  of  a  smartly-dressed  young  lady 


90     THE  SHF.PIir.RD  OF  TIIF  NORTH 

whom  he  seemed  to  know  vaguely,  riding  down 
the  dusty  street  on  a  shiny  yellow  side  saddle  on 
the  back  of  a  big,  vicious-looking  black  colt,  made 
the  little  man  reach  hastily  for  his  coat  of  cere- 
mony. 

"  M'm'selle  Lansing  I"  he  said,  bowing  in 
friendly  pomp  as  Ruth  drove  up. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  LaComb?  I  came 
down  to  go  to  Mass.  Can  you  tell  me  what  time 
it  begins?  " 

"  I  shall  ring  the  bell  when  I  have  put  away 
your  horse,  M'm'selle."  Now  no  earthly  power 
could  have  made  Arsene  LaComb  deviate  a  min- 
ute from  the  exact  time  for  ringing  that  bell. 
But,  he  was  a  Frenchman.  His  manner  intimated 
that  the  ringing  of  all  bells  whatsoever  must  await 
her  convenience. 

He  stepped  forward  jauntily  to  help  her  down. 
Ruth  kicked  her  feet  loose  and  slid  down 
deftly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  LaComb," 
said  Ruth  as  she  took  his  hand.  "  Did  you  see 
Jeffrey  Whiting  in  the  Village  last  night?  " 

A  girl  of  about  Ruth's  own  age  had  come 
quietly  up  the  street  and  stood  beside  them,  re- 
cording in  one  swift  inspection  every  detail  of 
Ruth  from  her  little  riding  cap  to  the  tips  of  her 
brown  boots. 

"  'Cynthe,"  said  the  little  man  briskly,  "  you 
show  Miss  Lansing  on  my  pew  for  Mass."     He 


you 
He 


GLOW  OF  DAWN  9, 

took  the  bridle  from  Ruth's  hand  and  led  the  horse 
away  to  the  shed  in  the  rear  of  the  store. 

The  fear  and  uneasiness  of  the  early  morning 
leaped  back  to  Ruth.  The  little  man  had  cer- 
tainly run  away  from  her  question.  Why  should 
he  not  answer? 

She  would  have  liked  to  linger  a  while  among 
the  people  standing  about  the  church  door.  She 
knew  some  of  them.  She  might  have  asked  ques- 
tjons  of  them.  But  her  escort  led  her  straight  into 
the  church  and  up  to  a  front  pew. 

At  the  end  of  the  Mass  the  people  filed  out 
quietly,  but  at  the  church  door  they  broke  into  vo'- 
leys  of  rapid-fire  French  chatter  of  which  Ruth 
could  only  catch  a  little  here  and  there. 

"  You  will  come  by  the  fete,  M'm'selle.     You 
will  not  dance  non,  I  s'pose.     But  you  will  eat, 
and  you  will  see  the  fun  they  make,  one  jolie  time  I 
I  ill   I   ring  the   Vesper  bell   they   will   dance." 
Arsene  led  Ruth  and  the  other  girl,  whom  she 
now  learned  was  Hyacinrhe  Cardinal,  across  the 
road  to  a   little  wood  that  stood   opposite  the 
church.     There  were  tables,  on  which  the  women 
had  already  begun  to  spread  the  food  that  they  had 
brought  from  home,  and  a  dancing  platform.     On 
a  great  stump  which  had  been  carved  rudely  into 
a  chair  sat  Soriel  Brouchard,  the  fiddler  of  the 
hills,  twiddling  critically  at  his  strings. 

It  seemed  strange  to  Ruth  that  these  people  who 
had  a  moment  before  been  so  devout  and  con- 


■# 


92     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


centrated  in  church  should  in  an  instant  switch 
their  whole  thought  to  a  day  of  eating  and  merry- 
making. But  she  soon  found  their  light-hearted 
gaiety  very  infectious.  Before  she  knew  it,  she 
was  sputtering  away  in  the  best  French  she  had 
and  entering  into  the  fun  with  all  her  heart. 

"Which  is  Rafe  Gadbeau?"  she  suddenly 
asked  Cynthe  Cardinal.     "  I  want  to  know  him." 

"  Why  for  you  want  to  know  him?"  the  girl 
asked  sharply  in  English. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Ruth  carelessly,  "  only 
I've  heard  of  him." 

The  other  girl  reached  out  into  the  crowd  and 
plucked  at  the  sleeve  of  a  tall,  beak-nosed  man. 
The  man  was  evidently  flattered  by  Ruth's  request, 
and  wanted  her  to  dance  with  him  immediately. 

"  No,"  said  Ruth,  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  dance 
your  dances,  and  we'd  only  break  up  the  sets  if 
I  tried  to  learn  now.  We've  heard  a  lot  about 
you,  Mr.  Gadbeau,  so,  of  course,  I  wanted  to 
know  you.  And  we've  heard  some  things  about 
Jeffrey  Whiting.  I'm  sure  you  could  tell  me  if 
they  are  true." 

"  You  don'  dance  ?  Well,  we  sit  then.  I  tell 
you.     One  rascal,  this  young  Whiting!  " 

Ruth  bit  back  an  angry  protest,  and  schooled 
lierself  to  listen  quietly  as  he  led  her  to  a  seat. 

As  they  left  the  other  girl  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  platform,  Ruth,  looking  back,  caught 


GLOW  OF  DAWN  93 

a  swift  glance  of  what  she  knew  was  jealous  anger 
in  her  eyes.  Ruth  was  sorry.  She  did  not  want 
to  make  an  enemy  of  this  girl.  But  she  felt  that 
she  must  use  every  effort  to  get  this  man  to  tell 
her  all  he  would. 

^^  "One  rascal,  I  tell  you,"  repeated  Gadbeau. 
"  First  he  stop  all  the  people.  He  say  don'  sell 
nodding.  Den  he  sell  his  own  farm,  him.  He 
sell  some  more;  he  got  big  price.  Now  he  skip 
the  country,  right  out.  An'  he  leave  these  poor 
French  people  in  the  soup. 

But  I  "—  he  sat  back  tapping  himself  on  the 
cheit— "I  got  hinfluence  with  that  railroad. 
They  buy  now  from  us.  To-morrow  morning, 
nine  o'clock,  here  comes  that  railroad  lawyer  on 
French  Village.  We  sell  out  everything  on  the 
option  to  him." 

^^  ''  But,"  objected  Ruth,  trying  to  draw  him  out, 
if  Jeffrey  Whiting  should   come   back   before 
then?" 

"  He  don'  come  back,  that  fellow." 
"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"I  know,  I —  He  don'  come  back.  I  tell 
you  that." 

"Jeffrey  Whiting  will  be  here  before  nine 
o'clock  to-morrow,"  she  said,  turning  suddenly 
upon  him. 

"Eh?  M'm'selle,  what  you  mean?  What 
you  know?  "  he  questioned  excitedly. 


0   I 


I 


94  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  Never  mind.  I  see  Miss  Cardinal  looking  at 
us,"  she  smiled  as  she  arose,  "  and  I  think  you  are 
in  for  a  lecture." 

Through  all  the  long  day,  while  she  ate  and 
listened  to  the  fun  and  talked  to  Father  Ponfret 
about  her  convent  life,  she  did  not  let  Rafe  Gad- 
beau  out  of  her  sight  or  mind  for  an  instant.  She 
knew  that  she  had  alarmed  him.  She  was  cer- 
tain that  he  knew  what  had  happened  to  Jeffrey 
Whiting.  And  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  betray 
himself  in  some  way. 

When  Arsene  LaComb  rang  the  bell  for  Ves- 
pers, she  waited  by  the  bell  ringer  to  see  that 
Gadbeau  came  into  the  church.  He  took  his  place 
among  the  men,  and  then  Ruth  dropped  quietly 
into  a  pew  near  the  door.  When  the  people  rose 
to  sing  the  Tantiim  Ergo,  she  saw  Gadbeau  slip 
unnoticed  out  of  the  church.  She  waited  tensely 
until  the  singing  was  finished,  then  she  almost  ran 
to  the  door. 

Gadbeau,  mounted  on  one  of  the  ponies  that 
had  been  standing  all  day  in  the  little  woods,  was 
riding  away  in  the  direction  of  the  trail  which  she 
had  come  down  this  morning.  She  fairly  flew 
down  the  street  to  Arsene  LaComb's  store. 
There  was  not  a  pony  in  the  hills  that  Brom  Bones 
could  not  overtake  easily,  but  she  must  see  by  what 
trail  the  man  left  the  Village. 

Brom  Bones  was  very  willing  to  make  a  race 
for  home,  and  she  let  him  have  his  head  until  she 


GLOW  OF  DAWN  95 

again  caught  sight  of  the  man.  She  pulled  up 
sharply  and  forced  the  colt  down  to  a  walk.  The 
man  was  still  on  the  main  road,  and  he  might  turn 
any  moment.  Finally  she  saw  him  pull  into  the 
trail  that  led  over  to  Wilbur's  Fork.  Then  she 
knew.  Jeffrey  was  somewhere  on  the  trail  be- 
tween French  Village  and  Wilbur's  Fork.  And 
he  was  alive !  The  man  was  going  now  to  make 
sure  that  he  was  still  there. 

For  an  hour,  the  long,  high  twilight  was  enough 
to  assure  her  that  the  man  was  still  following 
the  trail.  Then,  just  when  the  real  darkness  had 
fallen,  she  heard  a  pony  whinny  in  the  woods  at 
her  left.  The  man  had  turned  off  into  the  woods ! 
She  had  almost  passed  him!  She  threw  herself 
out  upon  Brom  Bones'  neck  and  caught  him  by 
the  nose.  He  threw  up  his  head  indignantly  and 
tried  to  bolt,  but  she  blessed  him  for  making  no 
noise.  She  drove  on  quietly  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards,  slipped  down,  and  drew  Brom  Bones  into 
the  bushes  away  from  the  road  and  tied  him.  She 
talked  to  him,  patting  his  head  and  neck,  plead- 
ing with  him  to  be  quiet.  Then  she  left  him  and 
stole  back  to  where  she  had  heard  the  pony. 

In  the  gloom  of  the  woods  she  could  see  noth- 
ing.  But  her  feet  found  themselves  on  what 
seemed  to  be  a  path  and  she  followed  it  blindly. 
She  almost  walked  into  a  square  black  thing  that 
suddenly  confronted  her.  Within  what  seemed  a 
foot  of  her  she  heard  voices.     Her  heart  stopped 


k.. 


96  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

beating,  but  the  blood  rang  In  her  ears  so  that  she 
could  not  distinguish  a  word.  One  of  the  voices 
was  certainly  Gadbeau's.  The  other —  It 
was !  —  It  was !  Though  it  was  only  a  mumble, 
she  knew  it  was  Jeffrey  Whiting  who  tried  to 
speak  I 

She  took  a  step  forward,  ready  to  dash  into 
the  place,  whatever  it  was.  But  the  caution  of  the 
hills  made  her  back  away  noiselessly  into  the 
brush.  What  could  she  do?  Why?  Oh,  why 
had  she  not  brought  a  rifle  ?  Gadbeau  was  sure  to 
be  armed.  Jeffrey  was  a  prisoner,  probably 
wounded  and  bound. 

She  backed  farther  into  the  bushes  and  started 
to  make  a  circuit  of  the  place.  She  understood 
now  that  it  was  a  sugar  hut,  built  entirely  of  logs, 
even  the  roof.  It  was  as  strong  as  a  blockhouse. 
She  knew  that  she  was  helpless.  And  she  knew 
that  Jeffrey  would  not  be  a  prisoner  there  unless 
he  were  hurt. 

She  could  only  wait.  Gadbeau  had  not  come 
to  injure  Jeffrey  further.  He  had  merely  come  to 
make  himself  sure  that  his  prisoner  was  secure. 
He  would  not  stay  long. 

As  she  stole  around  away  from  the  path  and 
the  pony  she  saw  a  little  stream  of  light  shoot 
out  through  a  chink  between  the  logs  of  the  hut. 
Gadbeau  had  made  a  light.  Probably  he  had 
brought  something  for  Jeffrey  to  eat.     She  pulled 


i  '; 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


97 


off  the  white  collar  of  her  jacket,  the  only  white 
thing  that  showed  about  her  and  settled  down  for 
a  long  wait. 

First  ^he  had  thought  that  she  ought  to  steal 
away  tf  .xr  horse  and  ride  for  help.  But  she 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  even  getting  be- 
yond the  sound  of  Jeffrey's  voice.  She  knew 
where  he  was  now.  He  might  be  taken  away 
while  she  was  gone.  And,  besides,  Ruth  Lansing 
had  always  learned  to  do  things  for  herself.  She 
had  always  disliked  appealing  for  help. 

Hour  after  hour  she  sat  in  the  oarkest  place 
she  could  find,  leaning  against  the  bole  of  a  great 
tree.  The  light,  candles,  of  course,  burned  on; 
and  the  voices  came  irregularly  through  the  liv- 
ing silence  of  the  woods.  She  did  not  dare  to 
creep  nearer  to  hear  what  was  being  said.  That 
did  not  matter.  The  important  thing  was  to  have 
Gadbeau  go  away  without  any  suspicion  that  he 
had  been  followed.  Then  she  would  be  free  to 
release  Jeffrey.  She  had  no  fear  but  that  she 
would  be  able  to  get  him  down  to  French  Village 
in  the  morning.  She  could  easily  have  him  there 
before  nine  o'clock. 

When  she  saw  by  the  stars  that  it  was  long 
past  midnight  she  began  to  be  worried.  Just  then 
the  light  went  out.  Ah!  The  man  was  going 
away  at  last!  She  waited  a  long,  nervous  half 
hour.     But  there  was  no  sound.     She  dared  not 


^f 


M 

} 

1 

1 

! 

i 

\i^ 


98     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

move,  for  even  when  she  shifted  her  position 
against  the  tree  the  oppressive  silence  seemed  to 
crackle  with  her  motion. 

Would  he  never  come  out?  It  seemed  not. 
Was  he  going  to  stay  there  all  night? 

Noiseless  as  a  cat,  she  rose  and  crept  to  the 
door  of  the  cabin.  Apparently  both  men  were 
asleep  within.  She  pushed  the  door  ever  so 
quietly.     It  was  firmly  barred  on  the  inside. 

What  could  she  do?  Nothing,  absolutely 
nothing!  Oh,  why,  why  had  she  not  brought  a 
rifle?  She  would  shoot.  She  would,  if  she  had 
it  now,  and  that  man  opened  the  door!  It  was 
too  late  now  to  think  of  riding  for  help,  too  late ! 
She  sank  down  again  beside  her  tree  and  raged 
helplessly  at  herself,  at  her  conceit  in  herself  that 
would  not  let  her  go  for  help  in  the  first  place, 
at  her  foolishness  in  coming  on  this  business  with- 
out a  gun.  The  hours  dragged  out  their  weary 
minutes,  every  minute  an  age  to  the  taut,  ragged 
nerves  of  the  girl. 

The  dawn  came  stealing  across  the  tree-tops, 
while  the  ground  still  lay  in  utter  darkness.  Ruth 
rose  and  slipped  farther  back  into  the  bushes. 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  upon  her  knees  in 
the  soft  grass,  and  the  hot,  angry  tears  of  des- 
peration and  rage  at  herself  were  softened.  Her 
heart  was  lighted  up  with  the  glow  of  dawn  and 
sang  its  prayer  to  God;  a  thrilling,  lifting  little 
prayer  of  confidence   and  wonder.     The   words 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


99 


that  the  night  before  would  not  form  themselves 
for  her  now  sprang  up  ready  in  her  soul  —  the 
words  of  all  the  children  of  earth,  to  Our  Father 
Who  Art  in  Heaven  —  paused  an  instant  to  bless 
her  lips,  then  sped  away  to  God  in  His  Heaven. 
Fear  was  gone,  and  doubt,  and  anxiety.  She 
would  save  Jeffrey,  and  she  would  save  the  poor, 
befooled  people  from  ruin,  God  had  told  her  so, 
as  He  walked  abroad  in  the  Glow  of  Dawn. 

Two  long  hours  more  she  waited,  but  now  with 
patience  and  a  sure  confidence.  Then  Rafe  Gad- 
beau  came  out  of  the  hut  and  strode  down  the 
path  to  his  pony. 

Ruth  rose  stiff  and  wet  from  the  ground  and 
ran  to  the  door,  and  called  to  Jeffrey.  The  only 
answer  was  a  moan.  The  door  was  locked  with 
a  great  iron  clasp  and  staple  joined  by  a  heavy 
padlock.  She  reached  for  the  nearest  stone  and 
attacked  the  lock  frantically.  She  beat  it  out  of 
all  semblance  to  a  lock,  but  still  it  defied  her. 
There  was  no  window  in  the  hut.  She  had  to 
come  back  again  to  the  lock.  Her  hands,  softened 
by  the  months  in  the  convent,  left  bloody  marks  on 
the  tough  brass  of  the  lock.  In  the  end  it  gave, 
and  she  threw  herself  against  the  door. 

Jeffrey  was  lying  trussed,  face  down,  on  a  bunk 
beside  the  furnace  where  they  boiled  the  sugar 
sap.  His  arms  were  stretched  out  and  tied  to- 
gether down  under  the  narrow  bunk.  She  saw 
that  his  left  arm  was  broken.     For  an  instant  the 


If^  3 


:l 


!     iJ 


100    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

girl's  heart  leaped  back  to  the  rage  of  the  night 
when  she  had  almost  prayed  for  her  rifle.  But 
pity  swallowed  up  every  other  feeling  as  she  cut 
the  cords  from  his  hands  and  loosened  the  rope 
that  they  had  bound  in  between  his  teeth. 

"  Don't  talk,  Jeff,"  she  commanded.  "  I  can 
see  just  what  happened.  Lie  easy  and  get  your 
strength.  I":  got  to  take  you  to  French  Vil- 
lage at  once." 

She  ran  out  to  bring  water.  When  she  returned 
he  was  sitting  dizzily  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk. 
While  she  bathed  his  head  with  the  water  and 
gave  him  a  little  to  drink,  she  talked  to  him  and 
crooned  over  him  as  she  would  over  a  baby  for 
she  saw  that  he  was  shaken  and  half  delirious  with 
pain. 

Brom  Bones  was  standing  munching  twigs 
where  she  had  left  him.  He  had  never  before 
been  asked  to  carry  double  and  he  did  not  like  it. 
But  the  girl  pleaded  so  pitifully  and  so  gently  into 
his  silky  black  ear  that  he  finally  gave  in. 

When  they  were  mounted,  she  fastened  the 
white  collar  of  her  jacket  into  a  sling  for  the 
boy's  broken  arm,  and  with  a  prayer  to  the  heathen 
Brom  Bones  to  go  tenderly  they  were  off  down 
the  trail. 

When  they  were  half  way  down  the  trail  Jeffrey 
spoke  suddenly : 

"  Say,  Ruth,  what's  the  use  trying  to  save  these 


GLOW  OF  DAWN 


lOI 


people?     Let's  sell  out  while  we  can  and  take 
mother  and  go  away." 

"  Why,  Jeff,  dear,"  she  said  lightly,  "  this  fight 
hasn't  begun  yet.  Wait  till  we  get  to  French  Vil- 
lage. You'll  say  something  different.  You'll  say 
just  what  you  said  to  the  Shepherd  of  the  North; 
remember?  " 

Jeffrey  said  no  more.  The  girl's  heart  was 
weak  with  the  pain  she  knew  he  was  bearing,  but 
she  knew  that  they  must  go  through  with  this. 

All  French  Village  and  the  farmers  of  Little 
Tupper  country  were  gathered  in  front  of  Arsene 
Lacomb's  store.  Rafe  Gadbeau  was  standing  on 
the  steps  haranguing  them.  He  had  stayed  with 
his  prisoner  as  he  thought  up  to  the  last  possible 
moment,  so  he  stammered  in  his  speech  when  he 
saw  a  big  black  horse  come  tearing  down  the  street 
carrying  a  girl  and  a  white-faced,  black-headed  boy 
behind  her.     Rogers,  the  railroad  lawyer  beside 

him,  said: 

"  Go  on,  man.     What's  the  matter  with  you?  " 

The  girl  drove  the  horse  right  in  through  the 

crowd  until  Jeffrey  Whiting  faced  Rogers.     Then 

Jeffrey,  gritting  his  teeth  on  his  pain,  took  up  his 

fight  again. 

"  Rogers,"  he  shouted,  "  you  did  this.  You 
got  Rafe  Gadbeau  and  the  others  to  knock  me  on 
the  head  and  put  me  out  of  the  way,  so  that  you 
could  spread  your  lies  about  me.     And  you'd  have 


I      ifl 


^tr 


'  I 


102    Tiir:  siiripiiFRD  of  the  north 

won  out,  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  brave  girl 
here. 

"  Now,  Rogers,  you  liar,"  he  shouted  louder, 
"  I  dare  you,  dare  you,  to  tell  these  people  here 
that  I  or  any  of  our  people  have  sold  you  a  foot 
of  land.     I  dare  you!  " 

Rogers  would  have  argued,  but  Rafe  Gadbeau 
pulled  him  away,  Gadbeau  knew  that  crowd. 
They  were  a  crowd  of  Frenchmen,  volatile  and 
full  of  potential  fury.  They  were  already  cheer- 
ing the  brave  girl.  In  a  few  minutes  they  would 
be  hunting  the  life  of  the  man  who  had  lied  to 
them  and  nearly  ruined  them. 

A  hundred  hands  reached  up  to  lift  Ruth  from 
the  saddle,  but  she  waved  them  away  and  pointed 
to  Jeffrey's  broken  arm.  They  helped  him  down 
and  half  carried  him  into  Doctor  Napoleon  Good- 
enough's  little  office. 

Ruth  saw  that  her  business  was  finished.  She 
wheeled  Brom  Bones  toward  home,  and  gave  him 
his  head. 

For  three  glor!->us  miles  they  fairly  flew  through 
the  pearly  morning  air  along  the  hard  mountain 
road,  and  the  girl  never  pulled  a  line.  Break- 
fastless  and  weary  in  body,  her  heart  sang  the 
song  that  it  had  learned  in  the  Glow  of  Dawn. 


l; 
t 


■■•     \ 


IV 


THE   ANSWER 


The  Committee  on  Franchises  was  in  session  in 
one  of  the  committee  rooms  outside  the  chamber 
of  the  New  York  State  Senate.  It  was  not  a  rou- 
tine session.  A  bill  was  before  it,  the  purpose  of 
which  was  virtually  to  dispossess  some  four  or 
five  hundred  families  of  their  homes  in  the  coun- 
ties of  Hamilton,  Tupper  and  Racquette.  The 
bill  did  not  say  this.  It  cited  the  need  of  ade- 
quate transportation  in  that  part  of  the  State  and 
proposed  that  the  U.  &  M.  Railroad  should  be 
granted  the  right  of  eminent  domain  over  three 
thousand  square  miles  of  the  region,  in  order  to 
help  the  development  of  the  country. 

The  committee  was  composed  of  five  members, 
three  of  the  majority  party  in  the  Senate  and  two 
of  the  minority.  A  political  agent  of  the  railroad 
who  drew  a  salary  from  Racquette  County  as  a 
judge  had  just  finished  presenting  to  the  commit- 
tee the  reasons  why  the  people  of  that  part  of 
the  State  were  unanimous  in  the  wish  that  the  bill 
should  become  a  law.  He  had  drawn  a  pathetic 
picture  of  the  condition  of  the  farmers,  ?n  lonr? 
deprived  of  the  benefits  of  a  railroad.     He  had 

103 


\  : 


!-■/ 


(;■   )l 


|l     i 


104  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

almost  wept  as  he  told  of  the  rich  loads  of  produce 
left  to  rot  up  there  in  the  hills  because  the  men 
who  toiled  to  produce  it  had  no  means  of  bringing 
it  down  to  the  starving  thousands  of  the  cities. 
The  scraggy  rocks  and  thinly  soiled  farms  of  that 
region  became  in  his  picture  vast  reservoirs  of 
cheap  food,  only  waiting  to  be  tapped  by  the 
beneficent  railroad  for  the  benefit  of  the  world's 
poor. 

When  the  judge  had  finished,  one  minority 
member  of  the  committee  looked  at  his  colleague, 
the  other  minority  member,  and  winked.  It  was 
a  grave  and  respectful  wink.  It  meant  that  the 
committee  was  not  often  privileged  to  listen  to 
quite  such  bare-faced  effrontery.  If  the  hearing 
had  been  a  secret  one  they  would  not  have  listened 
to  it.  But  the  bill  had  already  aroused  a  storm. 
So  the  leader  of  the  majority  had  given  orders 
that  the  hearing  should  be  public. 

So  far  not  a  word  had  been  said  as  to  the  fact 
which  underlay  the  motives  of  the  bill.  Iron  had 
been  found  in  workable  quantities  in  those  three 
thousand  square  miles  of  hill  country.  Not  a 
word  had  been  said  about  iron. 

No  one  in  the  room  had  listened  to  the  speech 
with  any  degree  of  interest.  It  was  intended  en- 
tirely  for  the  consumption  of  the  outside  public. 
Even  the  reporters  had  sat  listless  and  bored  dur- 
ing its  delivery.  They  had  been  furnished  with 
advance  copies  of  It  and  had  already  turned  them 


l:f\    51 


THE  ANSWER 


105 


in  to  their  papers.  But  with  the  naming  ol  the 
next  witness  a  stir  of  interest  ran  sharply  around 
the  room. 

Bishop  Joseph  Winthrop  of  Alden  rose  from 
his  place  in  the  rear  of  the  room  and  walked 
briskly  forward  to  the  chair  reserved.  A  tall, 
spare  figure  of  a  man  coming  to  his  sixty  years, 
his  hair  as  white  as  the  snow  of  his  hills,  with  a 
large,  firm  mouth  and  the  nose  of  a  Puritan  gover- 
nor, he  would  have  attracted  attention  under  al- 
most any  circumstances. 

Nathan  Gorham,  the  chairman  of  the  commit- 
tee, had  received  his  orders  from  the  leader  of  the 
majority  in  the  Senate  tha.  iie  bill  should  be  re- 
ported back  favourably  to  mat  body  before  night. 
He  had  anticipated  no  difficulty.  The  form  of  a 
public  hearing  had  to  be  gone  through  with.  It 
was  the  most  effective  way  of  disarming  the  sus- 
picions that  had  been  aroused  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  bill.  The  speech  of  the  Racquette  County 
Judge  was  the  usual  thing  at  public  hearings.  The 
chairman  had  expected  that  one  or  two  self-adver- 
tising reformers  of  the  opposition  would  come  be- 
fore the  committee  with  time-honoured,  stock  dia- 
tribes against  the  rapacity  and  greed  of  railroads 
in  general  and  this  one  in  particular.  Then  he 
and  his  twc  majority  colleagues  would  vote  to  re- 
port the  bill  favourably,  while  the  two  members 
of  the  minority  would  vote  to  report  adversely. 
This,  the  chairman  said,  was  about  all  a  public 


1  i' 


■(-■' 


;1 


I 


ifi'l'l 


Tl 


I 


i'  ,! 


i  1 


W- 


io6  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

hearing  ever  amounted  to.     He  had  not  counted 
on  the  coming  of  the  Bishop  of  Alden. 

"  The  committee  would  hke  to  hear,  sir,"  began 
the  chairman,  as  the  Bishop  took  his  place,  "  whom 
you  represent  in  the  matter  of  this  bill." 

The  reporters,  scenting  a  welcome  sensation  in 
what  had  been  a  dull  session  of  a  dull  committee, 
sat  with  poised  pencils  while  the  Bishop  turned  a 
look  of  quiet  gravity  upon  the  chairman  and  said: 

"  I  represent  Joseph  Winthrop,  a  voter  of 
Racquette  County." 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  of  course.  The  committee 
quite  understands  that  you  do  not  come  here  in  the 
interest  of  any  one.  But  the  gentleman  who  has 
just  been  before  us  spoke  for  the  farmers  who 
would  be  most  directly  affected  by  the  prosperity 
of  the  railroad,  including  those  of  your  county. 
Are  we  to  understand  that  there  is  opposition  in 
your  county  to  the  proposed  grant?  " 

"  Your  committee,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  cannot  be 
ignorant  that  there  is  the  most  stubborn  opposition 
to  this  grant  in  all  three  counties.  If  there  had 
not  been  that  opposition,  there  would  have  been  no 
call  for  the  bill  which  you  are  now  considering. 
If  the  railroad  could  have  gotten  the  options  which 
it  tried  to  get  on  those  farms  the  grant  would  have 
been  given  without  question.  Your  committee 
knows  this  better  than  I." 

"  But,"  returned  the  chairman,  "  we  have  been 
advised  that  the  r.iilroad  was  not  able  to  get  those 


THE  ANSWER 


107 


options  because  a  boy  up  there  in  the  Beaver  River 
country,  who  fancied  that  he  had  some  grievance 
against  the  railroad  people,  banded  the  people  to- 
gether to  oppose  the  options  in  unfair  and  unlaw- 
ful ways." 

The  chairman  paused  an  impressive  moment. 

"  In  fact,"  he  resumed,  "  from  what  this  com- 
mittee has  been  able  to  gather,  it  looks  very  much 
as  though  there  were  conspiracy  in  the  matter, 
against  the  U.  &  M.  Railroad.  It  almost  would 
seem  that  some  rival  of  the  railroad  in  question 
had  used  the  boy  and  his  fancied  grievance  to 
manufacture  opposition.  Conspiracy  could  not  be 
proven,  but  there  was  every  appearance." 

The  Bishop  smiled  grimly  as  he  dropped  his 
challenge  quietly  at  the  feet  of  the  committee. 

*'  The  boy,  Jeffrey  Whiting,"  he  said,  "  was 
guided  by  me.  I  directed  his  movements  from  the 
beginning." 

The  whole  room  sat  up  and  leaned  forward  as 
one  man,  alive  to  the  fact  that  a  novel  and  stirring 
situation  was  being  developed.  Everybody  had 
understood  that  the  Bishop  had  come  to  plead  the 
cause  of  the  French-Canadian  farmers  of  the 
hills. 

They  had  supposed  that  he  would  speak  only 
on  what  was  a  side  issue  of  the  case.  No  one  had 
expected  that  he  would  attack  the  main  question 
of  the  bill  itself.  And  here  he  was  openly  pro- 
claiming himself  the  principal  in  that  silent,  stub- 


♦M 


^^1 

'it 


f    -i 


'4 


■I  ' 


1  f 


f 


ul      I 


108     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

born  fight  that  had  been  going  on  up  in  the  hills 
for  six  months ! 

The  reporters  doubled  down  to  their  work  and 
wrote  furiously.     They  were  trying  to  throw  this 
unusual  man  upon  a  screen  before  their  readers. 
It  was  not  easy.     He  was  an  unmistakable  product 
of  \ew  England,  and  what  was  more  he  had  been 
one  of  the  leaders  of  that  collection  of  striking 
men  who  made  the  Brook  Farm  "  Experiment." 
He  had  endeared  himself  to  the  old  generation  of 
Americans  by  his  war  record  as  a  chaplain.     To 
some  of  the  new  generatio  .  he  was  known  as  the 
Yankee  Bishop.     But  in  the  hill  country,   from 
the  Mohawk  Valley  to  the  Canadian  line  and  to 
Lake  Champlain,  he  had  one  name.  The  Shepherd 
of  the  North.     From  Old  Forge  to  Ausable  to 
North  Creek  men  knew  his  ways  and  felt  the  beat- 
ing of  the  great  heart  of  him  behind  the  stern, 
ascetic  set  of  his  countenance. 

As  much  as  they  could  of  this  the  reporters 
were  trying  to  put  into  their  notes  while  Nathan 
Gorham  was  recovering  from  his  surprise.     That 
welkrained  statesman  saw  that  he  had  let  him- 
self  into  a  trap.     He  had  been  too  zealous  in  an- 
nouncing his  impression  that  the  opposition  to  the 
U.  &  M.  Railroad  was  the  work  of  a  jealous  rival. 
The  Bishop  had  taken  that  ground  from  under 
him    by   a    simple    stroke    of   truth.     He    could 
neither  go  forward  with  his  charge  nor  could  he 
retract  it. 


THE  ANSWER 


109 


"  Would  you  be  so  kind,  then,  as  to  tell  this 
committee,"  he  temporised,  "  just  why  you  wished 
to  arouse  this  opposition  to  the  railroad?  " 

*'  There  is  not  and  has  never  been  any  opposi- 
tion whatever  to  the  railroad,"  said  the  Bishop. 
"  The  bill  before  your  committee  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  right  of  way  of  the  railroad.  That 
has  already  been  granted.  Your  bill  proposes  to 
confiscate,  practically,  from  the  present  owners  a 
strip  of  valuable  land  forty  miles  wide  by  nearly 
eighty  mile^  long.  That  land  is  valuable  because 
the  experts  of  the  railroad  know,  and  the  people 
up  there  know,  and,  I  think,  this  committee  knows 
that  there  is  iron  ore  in  these  hills. 

"  I  have  said  that  I  do  not  represent  any  one 
here,"  the  Bishop  went  on.  "  But  there  are  four 
hundred  families  up  there  in  our  hills  who  stand 
to  suffer  by  this  bill.  They  are  a  silent  peoplt. 
They  have  no  voice  to  reach  the  world.  I  have 
asked  to  speak  before  your  committee  because 
only  in  this  way  can  the  case  of  my  people  reach 
the  great,  final  trial  court  of  publicity  before  the 
whole  State. 

"  They  are  a  silent  people,  the  people  of  the 
hills.  You  will  have  heard  that  they  are  a  stub- 
born people.  They  are  a  stubborn  people,  for 
they  cling  to  their  rocky  soil  and  to  the  hillside 
homes  that  their  hands  have  made  just  as  do  the 
hardy  trees  of  the  hills.  You  cannot  uproot  them 
by  the  stroke  of  a  pen. 


%\ 


.f  If 


no  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  "T^^e  people  are  my  friends  and  my  neigh- 
hours.  Many  of  them  were  once  my  comrades. 
I  know  what  they  think.  I  know  what  they  feel. 
1  wou  d  beg  your  committee  to  consider  very 
earnestly  this  question  before  bringing  to  bear 
against  these  people  the  sovereign  power  of  the 

h  f 'l  ^^/y/°^^  '^''''  State.  Many  of  them 
have  loved  the.r  country  to  the  peril  of  their 
lives.  They  hve  on  the  little  farms  ^hat  their 
fathers  literally  hewed  out  of  a  resisting  wilder- 

"  Not  through  prejudice  or  ignorance  are  they 
opposing  this  development,  which  will  in  the  end 
be  for  the  good  of  the  whole  region.  They  are 
opposed  to  this  bill  before  you  because  it  would 
give  a  corporation  power  to  drive  them  from  the 
homes  they  love,  and  that  without  fair  compensa- 

"  They  are  opposed  to  it  because  they  are 
Americans  They  know  what  it  has  meant  and 
what  It  still  means  to  be  Americans.     And  they 

thTt'h  Amenl^'"  ''  ^'''''^'  '^'""'  '"''■^^'^'"^ 
"  They  are  ever  ready  to  submit  themselves  to 
the  sovereign  will  of  the  State,  but  you  will  never 
convince  them  that  this  bill  is  the  real  will  of  the 
^tate.  They  are  fighting  men  and  the  sons  of 
fighting  men.  They  have  fought  the  course  of  the 
railroad  in  trying  to  get  options  from  them  by 
coercion  and  trickery.     Tl.ey  have  been  aroused 


THE  ANSWER 


III 


Their  homes,  poor  and  wretched  as  they  often 
are,  mean  more  to  them  than  any  law  you  can  set 
on  paper.  They  will  fight  this  law,  if  you  pass  it. 
It  will  set  a  ring  of  fire  and  murder  about  our 
peaceful  hills. 

"  In  the  name  of  high  justice,  in  the  name  of 
common  honesty,  in  the  name  -  -  to  come  to  lower 
levels  —  of  political  common  sense,  I  tell  you  this 
bill  should  never  go  back  to  the  Senate. 

"  It  is  wrong,  it  is  unjust,  and  it  can  only  re- 
bound upon  those  who  are  found  weak  enough  to 
let  it  pass  here." 

The  Bishop  paused,  and  the  racing,  jabbing  pen- 
cils of  the  reporters  could  be  plainly  heard  in  the 
hush  of  the  room. 

Nathan  Gorham  broke  the  pause  with  a  hesitat- 
ing question  which  he  had  been  wanting  to  put 
from  the  beginning. 

"  Perhaps  the  committee  has  been  badly  in- 
formed," he  began  to  the  Bishop;  "we  under- 
stood that  your  people,  sir,  were  mostly  Canadian 
immigrants  and  not  usually  owners  of  land." 

"  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  repeat,"  said  the 
Bishop,  turning  sharply,  "  that  I  am  here,  Joseph 
Winthrop,  speaking  of  and  for  my  neighbours  and 
my  friends?  Does  it  matter  to  them  or  to  this 
committee  that  I  wear  the  badge  of  a  service  that 
they  do  not  understand?  I  do  not  come  before 
you  as  the  Catholic  bishop.  Neither  do  I  come 
as  an  owner  of  property.     I  come  because  I  think 


'j 

1 

■  i 

1 

'  k 

.  m 

, 

;•! 

1 

1 

!'  tl 


112  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

the  cause  of  my  friends  will  be  served  by  my  com- 
ing. 

''  The  facts  I  have  laid  before  you,  the  warning 
I  have  given  might  as  well  have  been  sent  out 
direct  through  the  press.  But  I  have  chosen  to 
come  before  you,  with  your  permission,  because 
these  facts  will  get  a  wider  hearing  and  a  more 
eager  reading  coming  from  this  room. 

"I  do  not  seek  to  create  sensation  here.     I 
have  no  doubt  that  some  of  you  are  thinking  that 
the  place  for  a  churchman  to  speak  is  in  his  church. 
But  I  am  willing  to  face  that  criticism.     I  am  will- 
ing to  create  sensation.     I  am  willing  that  ycu 
should  say  that  I  have  gone  far  beyond  the  privi- 
lege  of  a  witness  invited  to  come  before  your 
committee.     I  am  willing,  in  fact,  that  you  should 
put  any  mterpretation  you  like  upon  my  use  of  my 
privilege  here,  only  so  that  my  neighbours  of  the 
hills  shall  have  their  matter  put  squarely  and  fully 
before  all  the  people  of  the  State. 

"  When  this  matter  is  once  thoroughly  under- 
stood  by  the  people,  then  I  know  that  no  branch 
of  the  lawmaking  power  will  dare  make  itself  re- 
sponsible for  the  passage  of  this  bill." 

The  Bishop  stood  a  moment,  waiting  for  fur- 
ther questions.  When  he  saw  that  none  were 
forthcoming,  he  thanked  the  committee  and 
begged  leave  to  retire. 

As  the  Bishop  passed  out  of  the  room  the 
chairman  arose  and  declared  the  public  hearing 


THE  ANSWER 


113 


closed.  Witnesses,  spectators  and  reporters 
crowded  out  of  the  room  and  scattered  through 
the  corridors  of  the  Capitol.  Four  or  five  re- 
porters bunched  themselves  about  the  elevator 
shaft  waiting  for  a  car.  One  of  them,  a  tow- 
haired  boy  of  twenty,  summed  up  the  matter  with 
irreverent  brevity. 

"  Well,  it  got  a  fine  funeral,  anyway,"  he  said. 
"  Not  every  bad  bill  has  a  bishop  at  the  obse- 
quies." 

*'  You  can't  tell,"  said  the  Associate  i  Press 
man  slowly;  "they  might  report  it  out  in  spite 
of  all  that." 

"  No  use,"  said  the  youngster  shortly.  "  The 
Senate  wouldn't  dare  touch  it  once  this  stuff  is 
in  the  papers."  And  he  jammed  a  wad  of  flimsy 
down  into  his  pocket. 

Three  weeks  of  a  blistering  August  sun  had 
withered  the  grasses  of  the  hills  almost  to  a  pow- 
der. The  thin  soil  of  the  north  country,  where 
the  trees  have  been  cut  away,  does  not  hold  mois- 
ture; so  that  the  heat  of  the  short,  vicious  summer 
goes  down  through  the  roots  of  the  vegetation  to 
the  rock  beneath  and  heats  it  as  a  cooking  stone. 

Since  June  there  had  been  no  rain.  The 
tumbling  hill  streams  were  reduced  to  a  trickle 
among  the  rocks  of  their  beds.  The  uplands  were 
covered  with  a  mat  of  baked,  dead  grass.  The 
second  growth  of  stunted  timber,  showing  every- 


:  m 


\  '4 


i=.fw 


114  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

where  the  scars  of  the  wasting  rapacity  of  man, 
stood  stark  and  wilted  to  the  roots.  All  roving 
life,  from  the  cattle  to  the  woodchucks  and  even 
the  field  mice,  had  moved  down  to  hide  itself  In 
the  thicker  growths  near  the  water  courses  or  had 
stolen  away  into  the  depths  of  the  thick  woods. 

Ruth  Lansing  reined  Brom  Bones  in  under  a 
scarred  pine  on  the  French  Village  road  and  sat 
lookmg  soberly  at  the  slopes  that  stretched  up 
away  from  the  road  on  either  side.     Every  child 
of  the  hills  knew  the  menace  that  a  hot  dry  sum- 
mer brought  to  us  in  those  days.     The  first,  ruth- 
less cutting  of  the  timber  had  followed  the  water 
courses.     Men  had  cut  and  slashed  their  way  up 
through  the  hills  without  thought  of  what  they 
were  leaving  behind.     They  had  taken  only  the 
prime,  sound  trees  that  stood  handiest  to  the  roll- 
ways.     They  had  left  dead  and  dying  trees  stand- 
ing.     Everywhere  they  had  strewn  loose  heaps  of 
brush  and  trimmings.     The   farmers  had  come 
pushmg  into  the  hills  in  the  wake  of  the  lumber- 
men and  had  cleared  their  pieces  for  corn  and  po- 
Mtoes  and  hay  land.     But  around  every  piece  of 
cleared  land  there  was  an  ever-encroaching  ring  of 
brush  and  undergrowth  and  fallen  timber  that  held 
a  constunt  threat  for  the  little  home  within  the 
ring. 

A  summer  without  rain  meant  a  season  of  grim 
and  unrelenting  watchfulness.  Men  armed  them- 
selves and  tramped  through  the  woods  on  unbid- 


i-i  I 


r.! 


THE  ANSWER 


IIS 


den  sentry  duty,  to  see  that  no  campfires  were 
made.  Strangers  and  outsiders  who  were  likely 
to  be  careless  were  watched  from  the  moment  they 
came  into  the  hills  until  they  were  seen  safely  out 
of  them  again.  Where  other  children  scouted  for 
and  fought  imaginary  Indians,  the  children  of  our 
hills  hunted  and  fought  imaginary  fires.  The 
forest  fire  was  to  them  not  a  tradition  or  a  buga- 
boo. It  was  an  enemy  that  lurked  just  outside  the 
little  clearing  of  the  farm,  out  there  in  the  under- 
brush and  fallen  timber. 

Ruth  was  waiting  for  Jeffrey  Whiting.  He  had 
ridden  up  to  French  Village  for  mail.  For  some 
weeks  they  had  known  that  the  railroad  would  try 
to  have  its  bill  for  eminent  domain  passed  at  the 
special  session  of  the  Legislature.  And  they 
knew  that  the  session  would  probably  come  to  a 
close  this  week. 

If  that  bill  became  a  law,  then  the  resistance  of 
the  people  of  the  hills  had  been  in  vain:  Jeffrey 
had  merely  led  them  into  a  bitter  and  useless  fight 
against  a  power  with  which  they  could  not  cope. 
They  would  have  to  leave  their  homes,  taking 
whatever  a  corrupted  board  of  condemnation 
would  grant  for  them.  It  would  be  hard  on  all, 
but  it  would  fall  upon  Jeffrey  with  a  crushing  bit- 
terness. He  would  have  to  remember  that  h^  had 
had  the  chance  to  make  his  mother  and  himself 
independently  rich.  He  had  thrown  away  that 
chance,  and  now  if  his  fight  had  failed  he  would 


■  m 


M  I 


ii6   THE  shl:i>iierd  of  the  north 

have  nothing  to  bring  back  to  his  mother  but  his 
own  mjscrable  failure. 

.  Ruth  remembered  that  day  in  the  Bishop's  house 
m  Alden  when  Jeffrey  had  said  proudly  that  h 
mother  would  be  glad  to  follow  him  into  pover!^^ 
And  she  smded  now  at  her  own  outburst  at  that 
time.  They  had  both  meant  it,  every  word;  but 
he  ashes  of  fadure  are  bitter.  And  she  had  seen 
he  ,ron  of  th.s  fight  biting  into  Jeffrey  through 
all  the  summer.  ^ 

h,f/' '°°' 7"'1'<»^  "  great  deal  if  the  railroad 
had  succeeded  She  would  not  be  able  to  go  back 
to  school,  and  would  probably  have  to  go  some- 
where  to  get  work  of  some  kind,  for  the  little  that 
she  would  get  for  her  farm  now  would  not  keep 
her  any  t,me.  But  that  was  a  little  matter,  or  at 
least  It  seemed  little  and  vague  beside  the  im- 

T-T  "J  ^i^""''^  '"""«  -J  -•>"  he  woTd 
consider  his  disgrace.     She  did  not  know  how  he 

would  taKe  It,  for  during  the  summer  she  had  seen 
h.m  ,n  vicous  moods  when  he  seemed  capable  of 
everything.  ^ 

She  saw  the  speck  which  he  made  against  the 
hor.zon  as  he  came  over  Argy^le  Mountain  three 
m.Ies  away  and  she  saw  that  he  was  riding  fast. 
Me  was  bnngmg  good  news ! 

It  needed  only  the  excited,  happy  touch  of  her 

hand  to  set  Brom  Bones  whirh'ng  up  the  road,  for 

he  b.g  co!t  understood  her  ways  and  moods  and 

followed  them  better  than  he  would  have  followed 


m  I 


THE  ANSWER 


117 


whip  or  rein  of  another.  Half-way,  she  pulled 
the  big  fellow  down  to  a  decorous  canter  and 
gradually  slowed  down  to  a  walk  as  Jeffrey  came 
thundering  down  upon  them.  He  pulled  up 
sharply  and  turned  on  his  hind  feet.  The  two 
horses  fell  into  step,  as  they  knew  they  were  ex- 
pected to  do  and  their  two  riders  gave  them  no 
more  heed  than  if  they  had  been  wooden  horses. 

"  How  did  you  know  it  was  all  right,  Ruth?  " 

"  I  saw  you  coming  down  Argyle  Mountain," 
Ruth  laughed.  *'  You  looked  as  though  you  were 
riding  Victory  down  the  top  side  of  the  earth. 
How  did  it  all  come  out?  " 

"  Here's  the  paper,"  he  said,  handing  her  an 
Albany  newspaper  of  the  day  previous;  "  it  tells 
the  story  right  off.  But  I  got  a  letter  from  the 
Bishop,  too,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  did  you?"  she  exclaimed,  looking  up 
from  the  headline  —  U.  &  M.  Grab  Killed  in 
Committee  —  which  she  had  been  feverishly  try- 
ing to  translate  into  her  own  language.  "  Please 
let  me  hear.  I'm  never  sure  what  headlines  mean 
till  I  go  down  to  the  fine  print,  and  then  it's  gen- 
erally something  else.  I  can  understand  what  the 
Bishop  says,  I'm  sure." 

"  Well,  it's  only  short,"  said  Jeffrey,  unfolding 
the  letter.  "  He  leaves  out  all  the  part  that  he 
did  himself." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Ruth  simply.  "  He  always 
does." 


•   1  K  J  * 


I  I 


I  ft:  i 


ii8  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  He  says: 

"  *  Vou  will  see  from  the  Albany  papers,  which 
will  probably  reach  you  before  this  does,  that  the 
special  session  of  the  Legislature  closed  to-night 
and  that  the  railroad's  bill  was  not  reported  to 
the  Senate.     It  had  passed  the  Assembly,  as  you 
know.      The  bill  aroused  a  measure  of  just  public 
anger  through  the  newspapers  and  its  authors  evi- 
dently  thought  it  the  part  of  wisdom  not  to  risk 
a  contest  over  it  in  the  open  Senate.     So  there  can 
be  no  legislative  action  in  favour  of  the  railroad 
before  December  at  the  earliest,  and  I  regard  it  as 
doubtful  that  the  matter  will  be  brought  up  even 
then.  '^ 

"  You  see,"  said  Jeffrey,  "  from  this  you'd  never 
know  that  he  was  there  present  at  all.  And 
It  was  just  his  speech  before  the  committee 
that  aroused  that  public  anger.  Then  he  goes 
on:  ^ 

"  '  But  we  must  not  make  the  mistake  of  pre- 
suming that  the  matter  ends  here.     You  and  your 
people  are  just  where  you  were  in  the  beginning. 
^othlng  has  been  lost,  nothing  gained.     It  is  not 
in  the  nature  of  things  that  a  corporation  which 
has  spent  an  enormous  amount  of  money  in  con- 
structing a  line  with  the  one  purpose  of  getting 
to  your  lands  should  now  give  up  the  idea  of  get- 
ting them  by   reason  of  a  mere  legislative  set- 
back.    They  have  not  entered  into  this  business 
in  any  half-hearted  manner.     They  are  bound  to 


ly 


THE  ANSWER 


119 
We  must 


carr>'  it  through  somehow  —  anyhow, 
realise  that. 

"  '  We  need  not  speculate  upon  the  soul  or  the 
conscience  of  a  corporation  or  the  lack  of  those 
things.  Wc  know  that  this  corporation  will  have 
an  answer  to  this  defeat  of  its  bill.  We  must 
watch  for  that  answer.  What  their  future  meth- 
ods or  their  plans  may  be  I  think  no  man  can  tell. 
Perhaps  those  plans  are  not  yet  even  formed. 
But  there  will  be  an  answer.  While  rejoicing  that 
a  fear  of  sound  public  opinion  has  been  on  your 
side,  we  must  never  forget  that  there  will  be  an 
answer. 

"  '  In  this  matter,  young  sir,  I  have  gone  be- 
yond the  limits  which  men  set  for  the  proper  ac- 
tivities of  a  pric-t  of  the  church.  I  do  not  apolo- 
gise. I  have  done  this,  partly  because  your 
people  are  my  own,  my  friends  and  my  comrades 
of  old,  partly  because  you  yourself  came  to  me  in 
a  confidence  which  I  do  not  forget,  partly  —  and 
most,  perhaps  —  because  where  my  people  and 
their  rights  are  in  question  I  have  never  greatly 
respected  those  limits  which  men  set.  I  put  these 
things  before  you  so  that  when  the  anszvcr  comes 
you  will  remember  that  you  engaged  yourself  in 
this  business  solely  in  defence  of  the  right.  So  It 
is  not  your  personal  fight  and  you  must  try  to 
keep  from  your  mind  and  heart  the  bitterness  of  a 
quarrel.  The  struggle  is  a  larger  thing  than  that 
and  you  must  keep   your  heart  larger  still  and 


( 


If 
it 


,1' 


fsl 


I   j 


1 20  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

above  it.     I  fear  that  you  will  sorely  need  to  re- 
member this. 

"  '  My  sincerest  regards  to  your  family  and  to 
all  my  friends  in  the  hills,  not  forgetting  your 
friend  Ruth.'  That's  all,"  said  Jeffrey,  folding 
the  letter.  "  I  wish  he'd  said  more  about  how  he 
managed  the  thing." 

Isn't  it  enough  to  know  that  he  did  manage  it, 
without  bothering  about  how?  That  is  the  way 
he  does  everything." 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  satisfied,"  said  Jeffrey 
as  he  gathered  up  his  reins.  "  But  I  wonder  what 
he  means  by  that  last  part  of  the  letter.  It  sounds 
like  a  warning  to  me." 

"  It  is  a  warning  to  you,"  said  Ruth  thought- 
fully.  ^ 

"Why,  what  does  it  mean?  What  does  he 
thmk  I'm  likely  to  do?" 

"  Maybe  he  does  not  mean  what  you  are  likely 
to  do  exactly,"  said  Ruth,  trying  to  choose  her 
words  wisely;  "  maybe  he  is  thinking  more  of  what 
you  are  likely  to  feel.  Maybe  he  is  talking  to 
your  heart  rather  than  to  your  head  or  about  your 
actions." 

"  Now  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  either," 
said  Jeffrey  a  little  discontentedly." 

"  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  try  to  tell  you  what  the 
Bishop  means,  for  I  don't  know  myself.  But  I've 
been  worried  and  I'm  sure  your  mother  has  too," 
said  Ruth  reluctantly. 


,  r  j  ,  a  1 


ib 


THE  ANSWER 


121 


"^"^^hat    is     it?"     said    Jeffrey     quickly. 
What  have  I  been  doing?  " 


m  sure  it  isn 


anything  you've  done, 
lat  you'ic  likely  to  do.  I  < 
it  is  or  how  to   say  it 


nor 


anything 

know  just  wnac  it  is  or  how  to  say  it.  But, 
JeHrey  you  remembe  wliat  you  r,aid  that  day  in 
the  Bishop's  house  at  .Jdcn?  " 

''  Yes,  and  I  remember  what  you  said,  too." 
"  We  both  meant  it,"  Ruth  returned  gravely, 
not  attempting  to  evade  any  of  the  meaning  that 
he  had  thrown  into  his  words.  "  And  we  both 
mean  it  now,  I'm  sure.  But  there's  a  difference, 
Jeffrey,  a  difference  with  you." 
»  ;'  I  ^oft  know  it,"  he  said  a  little  shortly. 
1  m  still  doing  just  the  thing  I  started  out  to  do 
that  day." 

"  Yes.  But  that  day  you  started  out  to  fight 
tor  the  people.  Now  you  are  fighting  for  your- 
self— Oh,  not  for  anything  selfish!  Not  for 
anythmg  you  want  for  yourself!  I  know  that. 
But  you  have  made  the  fight  your  own.  It  is  your 
own  quarrel  now.  You  are  fighting  because  you 
have  come  to  hate  the  railroad  people." 

"  Well,  you  wouldn't  expect  me  to  love  them  ?  " 
"  No.  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Jeff.  But  —  but, 
1  m  afraid.  Hate  is  a  terrible  thing.  I  wish  you 
were  out  of  it  all.  Hate  can  only  hurt  you  I'm 
afraid  of  a  scar  that  it  might  leave  on  you  through 
all  the  long,  long  years  of  life.  Can  you  see? 
I  m  afraid  of  something  that  might  go  deeper 


,pi 


M 


'•I  ,i 


il'^ 


4  -'i 


|<;' 


■^  ' 


1^  1 


122  THK  SHKPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

than  all  this,  something  that  might  go  as  deep  as 
life.  After  all,  that's  what  I'm  afraid  of,  I 
guess —  Life,  great,  big,  terrible,  menacing, 
Life!" 

"  My  life?  "  Jeffrey  asked  gruffly. 

"  I  have  faced  that,"  the  girl  answered  evenly, 
"  just  as  you  have  faced  it.  And  I  am  not  afraid 
of  that.     No.     It's  what  you  might  do  in  anger 

—  if  they  hurt  you  again.  Something  that  would 
scar  your  heart  and  your  soul.  Jeffrey,  do  you 
know  that  sometimes  I've  seen  the  worst,  the  worst 

—  even  murder  in  your  eyes !  " 

"I  wish,"  the  boy  returned  shortly,  "the 
Bishop  would  keep  his  religion  out  of  all  this. 
He's  a  good  man  and  a  good  friend,"  he  went  on, 
"  but  I  don't  like  this  religion  coming  into  every- 
thing." 

"  But  how  can  he?  He  cannot  keep  religion 
apart  from  life  and  right  and  wrong.  What 
good  would  religion  be  if  it  did  not  go  ahead  of 
us  in  life  and  show  us  the  way?  " 

"  But  what's  the  use?  "  the  boy  said  grudingly. 
What  good  does  it  do?  You  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  any  of  this  only  for  that  last  part  of 
his  letter.  Why  does  that  have  to  come  into 
everything?  It's  the  Catholic  Church  all  over 
again,  always  pushing  in  everywhere." 

"Isn't  that  funny,"  the  girl  said,  brifxhtening; 
*'  I  have  cried  myself  sick  thinking  just  that  same 


THE  ANSWER 


123 


thing.  I  have  pone  almost  frantic  thinking  that 
if  I  once  gave  >a  to  the  Church  it  would  crush 
me  and  make  me  do  everything  that  I  didn't  want 
to  do.  And  now  I  never  think  of  it.  Life  goes 
along  really  just  as  though  being  a  Catholic  didn  t 
make  any  difference  at  all." 

"  That's  because  you've  given  in  to  it  alto- 
gether. You  don't  even  know  that  you  want  to 
resist.     You're  swallowed  up  in  it." 

The  girl  flushed  angrily,  but  bit  her  lips  before 
she  answered. 

"  It's  the  queerest  thing,  isn't  it,  Jeff,"  she  said 
finally  in  a  thoughtful,  friendly  way,  "  how  two 
people  can  fight  about  religion?  Now  you  don't 
care  a  particle  about  it  one  way  or  the  other. 
And  I  —  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it.  And  yet, 
we  were  just  now  within  an  inch  of  quarrelling  bit- 
terly about  it.     Why  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  sorry,  Ruth,"  the  boy 
apologised  slowly.  "  It's  none  of  my  business, 
anyway." 

They  were  just  coming  over  the  long  hill  above 
Ruth's  home.  Below  them  stretched  the  long 
sweep  of  the  road  down  past  her  house  and  up 
the  other  slope  until  it  lost  itself  around  the 
shoulder  of  Lansing  Mountain. 

Half  a  mile  below  them  z  rider  was  pushing  his 
big  roan  horse  up  the  hill  towards  them  at  a  heart- 
breaking pace. 


1: 


•11 


^1    1 


1     1. 


I 'I 


:i1  i 

M  \ 

5 


124  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  That's  '  My  '  Stocking's  roan,"  said  Jeffrey, 
straightening  in  his  saddle;  *'  I'd  know  that  horse 
three  miles  away." 

"But  what's  he  carrying?"  cried  Ruth  ex- 
citedly, as  she  peered  eagerly  from  under  her 
shading  hand.  "  Look.  Across  his  saddle. 
Rifles!     Two  of  them!  " 

Brom  Bones,  sensing  the  girl's  excitement,  was 
already  pulling  at  his  bit,  eager  for  a  wild  race 
down  the  hill.  But  Jeffrey,  after  one  long,  sharp 
look  at  the  oncoming  horseman,  pulled  in  quietly 
to  the  side  of  the  road.  And  Ruth  did  the  same. 
She  was  too  well  trained  in  the  things  of  the  hills 
not  to  know  that  if  there  was  trouble,  then  it  was 
no  time  to  be  weakening  horses'  knees  in  mad  and 
useless  dashes  downhill. 

The  rider  was  Myron  Stocking  from  over  in 
the  Crooked  Lake  country,  as  Jeffrey  had  sup- 
posed. He  pulled  up  as  he  recognised  the  two 
who  waited  for  him  by  the  roadside,  and  when 
he  had  nodded  to  Ruth,  whom  he  knew  by  sight, 
he  drew  over  close  to  Jeffrey.  Ruth,  eager  as 
she  was  to  hear,  pushed  Brom  Bones  a  few  paces 
farther  away  from  them.  They  would  not  talk 
freely  in  her  hearing,  she  knew.  And  Jeffrey 
would  tell  her  all  that  she  needed  to  know. 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  half  dozen  rapid  sen- 
tences and  Ruth  heard  Stocking  conclude : 

"  Your  Uncle  Catty  slipped  me  this  here  gun 
o'  yours.     Your  Ma  didn't  see." 


THE  ANSWER 


125 


Jeffrey  nodded  and  took  the  gun.  Then  he 
came  to  Ruth. 

"  There's  some  strangers  over  in  the  hills  that 
maybe  ought  to  be  watched.  The  country's  aw- 
ful dry,"  he  added  quietly.  He  knew  that  Ruth 
would  need  no  further  explanation. 

He  pulled  the  Bishop's  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  Ruth,  saying: 

"  Take  this  and  the  paper  along  to  Mother. 
She'll  want  to  see  them  right  away.  And  say, 
Ruth,"  he  went  on,  as  he  looked  anxiously  at  the 
great  sloping  stretches  of  bone-dry  underbrush  that 
lay  between  them  and  his  home  on  the  hill  three 
miles  away,  "  the  country's  awful  dry.  If  any- 
thing happens,  get  Mother  and  Aunt  Letty  down 
out  of  this  country.  You  can  make  them  go. 
Nobody  else  could." 

The  girl  had  not  yet  spoken.  There  was  no 
need  for  her  to  ask  questions.  She  knew  what 
lay  under  every  one  of  Jeffrey's  pauses  and 
silences.  It  was  no  time  for  many  words.  He 
was  laying  upon  her  a  trust  to  look  after  the  ones 
whom  he  loved. 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  his  and  said  simply : 

"  I'm  glad  we  didn't  quarrel,  Jeff." 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  said  Jeffrey  gruffly,  as  he  wrung 
her  hand.  "  But  I'll  remember.  Forgive  me, 
please,  Ruth." 

"  There's  nothing  to  forgive  —  ever  —  be- 
tween us,  Jeffrey.     Go  now,"  she  said  softly. 


I  r^ 


)i 


fi'i 


4  I 

''1:! 


126  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Jeffrey  wheeled  his  horse  and  followed  the 
other  man  back  over  the  hill  on  the  road  which 
he  and  Ruth  had  come.  Ruth  sat  still  until  they 
were  out  of  sight.  At  the  very  last  she  saw 
Jeffrey  swing  his  rifle  across  the  saddle  in  front  of 
him,  and  a  shadow  fell  across  her  heart.  She 
would  have  given  everything  in  her  world  to  have 
had  back  what  she  had  said  of  seeing  murder  in 
Jeffrey's  eyes. 

Jeffrey  and  Myron  Stocking  rode  steadily  up 
the  French  Village  road  for  an  hour  or  so.  Then 
they  turned  off  from  the  road  and  began  a  long 
winding  climb  up  into  the  higher  levels  of  the 
Racquette  country. 

"  We  might  as  well  head  for  Bald  Mountain 
right  away,"  said  Jeffrey,  as  they  came  about  sun- 
down to  a  fork  in  their  trail.  "  The  breeze  comes 
straight  down  from  the  east.  That's  where  the 
danger  is,  if  there  is  any." 

''  I  suppose  you're  right,  Jeff.  But  It  means 
we'll  have  to  sleep  out  i^  we  go  that  way." 

"  I  guess  that  won't  hurt  us,'*  Jeffrey  returned. 
"If  anything  happens  we  might  have  to  sleep  out 
a  good  many  nights  —  and  a  lot  of  other  people 
would  have  to  do  the  same." 

"All  right  then,"  Stocking  agreed.  "We'll 
get  a  bite  and  give  the  horses  a  feed  and  a  rest  at 
Hosmer's,  that's  about  two  miles  over  the  hills 
here;  and  then  v/e  can  go  on  as  far  as  you  like." 

At  Hosmer's  they  got   food  enough   for  two 


THE  ANSWER 


127 


days  in  the  hills,  and  having  fed  and  breathed  the 
horses  they  rode  on  up  into  the  higher  woods. 
They  were  now  in  the  region  of  the  uncut  timber 
where  the  great  trees  were  standing  from  the  be- 
ginning, because  they  had  been  too  high  up  to  be 
accessible  to  the  lumbermen  who  had  ravaged  the 
lower  levels.  Though  the  long  summer  twilight 
of  the  North  still  lighted  the  tops  of  the  trees,  the 
two  men  rode  in  impenetrable  darkness,  leaving 
the  horses  to  pick  their  own  canny  footing  up  the 
trail. 

"Did  anybody  see  Rogers  in  that  crowd?" 
Jeffrey  asked  as  they  rode  along.  "  You  know, 
the  man  that  was  in  French  Village  this  summer." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Stocking  answered.  "  You 
see  they  came  up  to  the  end  of  the  rails,  at  Graf- 
ton, on  a  handcar.  And  then  they  scattered. 
Nobody's  sure  that  he's  seen  any  of  'em  since. 
But  they  must  be  in  the  hills  somewhere.  And 
Rafe  Gadbeau's  with  'em.  You  can  bet  on  that. 
That's  all  we've  got  to  go  on.  But  it  may  be 
a-plenty." 

"  It's  enough  to  set  us  on  the  move,  anyway," 
said  Jeffrey.  "  They  have  no  business  in  the 
hills.  They're  bound  to  be  up  to  mischief  of  some 
sort.  And  there's  just  one  big  mischief  that  they 
can  do.  Can  we  make  Bald  Mountain  before  day- 
light?" 

"Oh,  certainly;  that'll  be  easy.  We'll  get  a 
little  light  when  we're  through  this  belt  of  heavy 


'!'  ij 


11  It 


Ill  f! 


■  ' 

It 

i 

1- 

■  ''' 

1 

■  ^-:>i 

4 

t. 

128     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  TME  NORTH 

woods  and  then  we  can  push  along.  We  ought 
to  get  up  there  by  two  o'clock.  It  ain't  light  till 
near  five.  That'll  give  us  a  little  sleep,  if  we  feel 
like  it." 

True  to  Stocking's  calailation  they  came  out 
upon  the  rocky,  thinly  grassed  knobs  of  Bald 
Mountain  shortly  before  two  o'clock.  It  was  a 
soft,  hazy  night  with  no  moon.  There  was  rain 
in  the  air  somewhere,  for  there  was  no  dew;  but 
it  might  be  on  the  other  side  of  the  divide  or  it 
might  be  miles  below  on  the  lowlands. 

Others  of  the  men  of  the  hills  were  no  doubt  in 
the.  vicinity  of  the  mountain,  or  were  heading 
toward  here.  For  the  word  of  the  menace  had 
gone  through  the  hills  that  day,  and  men  would  de- 
cide, as  Jeffrey  had  done,  that  the  danger  would 
come  from  this  direction.  But  they  had  not 
heard  anything  to  show  the  presence  of  others, 
nor  did  they  care  to  give  any  signals  of  their  own 
whereabouts. 

As  for  those  others,  the  possible  enemy,  who 
had  left  the  railroad  that  morning  and  had  scat- 
tered into  the  hills,  if  their  purpose  was  the  one 
that  men  feared,  they,  too,  would  be  near  here. 
But  it  was  useless  to  look  for  them  in  the  dark: 
neither  was  anything  to  be  feared  from  them  be- 
fore morning.  Men  do  not  start  forest  fires  in 
the  night.  There  is  little  wind.  A  fire  would 
probably  die  out  of  itself.  And  the  first  blaze 
would  rouse  the  whole  country. 


THE  AxXSWER 


129 


The  two  hobbled  their  horses  with  the  bridle 
reins  and  lay  down  in  the  open  to  wait  for  morn- 
ing. Neither  had  any  thought  of  sleep.  But  the 
softness  of  the  night,  the  pungent  odour  of  the 
tamarack  trees  floating  up  to  them  from  below, 
and  their  long  ride,  soon  began  to  tell  on  them. 
Jeffrey  saw  that  they  must  set  a  watch. 

"  Curl  up  and  go  to  sleep,  *  My,'  "  he  said, 
shaking  himself.  "  You  might  as  well.  I'll  wake 
you  in  an  hour." 

A  ready  snore  was  the  only  answer. 

Morning  coming  over  the  higher  eastern  hills 
found  them  stiff  and  weary,  but  alert.  The 
woods  below  them  were  still  banked  in  darkness 
as  they  ate  their  dry  food  and  caught  their  horses 
for  the  day  that  was  before  them.  There  was 
no  water  to  be  had  up  here,  and  they  knew  their 
horses  must  be  gotten  down  to  some  water  course 
before  night. 

A  half  circle  of  open  country  belted  by  heavy 
woods  lay  just  below  them.  Eagerly,  as  the  light 
crept  down  the  hill,  t'  ey  scanned  the  area  for  sign 
of  man  or  horse.  Nothing  moved.  Apparently 
they  had  the  world  to  themselves.  A  fresh  morn- 
ing breeze  came  down  over  the  mountain  and 
watching  they  could  see  the  ripple  of  it  in  the  tops 
of  the  distant  trees.  The  same  thought  made 
both  men  grip  their  rifles  and  search  more  care- 
fully the  ground  below  them,  for  that  innocent 
breezt  blowing  straight  down  towards  their  homes 


! 

f 
I      I 


•I : 


I 


m 


ifc  i^m 


0' 


!'t 


1  ! 


1 

.1 

H  '••] 

< 

B 

H  ■  1 

Hn^ 

■li  ',i 

130    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

and  loved  ones  was  a  potential  enemy  more  to  be 
feared  than  all  the  doings  of  men. 

Down  to  the  right,  two  miles  or  more  away,  a 
man  came  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  woods.  They 
could  only  see  that  he  was  a  big  man  and  stout. 
There  was  nothing  about  him  to  tell  them  whether 
he  was  friend  or  foe,  of  the  hills  or  a  stranger. 
Without  waiting  to  see  who  he  was  or  what  he 
did,  the  two  dove  for  their  saddles  and  started 
their  horses  pell-mell  down  the  hill  towards  him. 
He  saw  them  at  once  against  the  bare  brow  of 
the  hill,  and  ran  back  into  the  wood. 

In  another  instant  they  knew  what  he  was  and 
what  was  his  business. 

They  saw  a  light  moving  swiftly  along  the 
fringe  of  the  woods.  Behind  the  light  rose  a  trail 
of  white  smoke.  And  behind  the  smoke  ran  a 
line  of  living  fire.  The  man  was  running,  drag- 
ging a  flaming  torch  through  the  long  dried  grass 
and  brush! 

1  he  two,  riding  breakneck  down  over  the  rocks, 
regardless  of  paths  or  horses'  legs,  would  gladly 
have  killed  the  man  as  he  ran.  But  it  was  too  far 
for  even  a  random  shot.  They  could  only  ride  on 
in  reckless  rage,  mad  to  be  at  the  fire,  to  beat 
it  to  death  with  their  hands,  to  stamp  it  into  the 
earth,  but  more  eager  yet  for  a  right  distance  and 
a  fair  shot  at  the  fiend  there  within  the  wood. 

Before  they  had  stumbled  half  the  distance 
down  the  hill,  a  wave  of  leaping  flame  a  hundred 


♦ 


THE  ANSWER 


131 


feet  long  was  hurling  itself  upon  the  forest. 
They  could  not  stamp  that  fire  out.  But  they 
could  kill  that  man! 

The  man  ran  back  behind  the  wall  of  fire  to 
where  he  had  started  and  began  to  run  another 
line  of  fire  in  the  other  direction.  At  that  mo- 
ment Stocking  yelled: 

"There's  another  starting,  straight  in  front  1  " 

"  Get  him,"  Jeffrey  shouted  over  his  shoulder. 
"  I'm  going  to  kill  this  one." 

Stocking  turned  slightly  and  made  for  a  second 
light  which  he  had  seen  starting.  Jeffrey  rode  on 
alone,  unslinging  his  rifle  and  driving  madly.  His 
horse,  already  unnerved  by  the  wild  dash  down 
the  hill,  now  saw  the  fire  and  started  to  bolt  off  at 
a  tangent.  Jeffrey  fought  with  him  a  furious 
moment,  trying  to  force  him  toward  the  fire  and 
the  man.  Then,  seeing  that  he  could  not  con- 
quer the  fright  of  the  horse  and  that  his  man  was 
escaping,  he  threw  his  leg  over  the  saddle,  and 
leaping  free  with  his  gun  ran  towards  the 
man. 

The  man  was  dodging  in  and  out  now  among 
the  trees,  but  still  using  his  torch  and  moving 
rapidly  away. 

Jeffrey  ran  on,  gradually  overhauling  the  man 
in  his  zigzag  until  he  was  within  easy  distance. 
But  the  man  continued  weaving  his  way  among  the 
trees  go  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  a  fair  aim. 
Jeffrey  dropped  to  one  knee  and  steadied  the  sights 


m 


H' 


i       '1 


i{' 

(! 

i ! 

4 

It  ■ ' 

i 

i 

. 
i  i 

I        |!, 


132    tiil:  siif.pijKrd  of  the  north 

of  his  rifle   until  they  closed  upon  the   running 
man  and  clung  to  him. 

Suddenly  the  man  turned  in  an  open  space  and 
faced  about.  It  was  Rogers,  Jeffrey  saw.  He 
was  unarmed,  but  he  must  be  killed. 

"  I  am  going  to  kill  him,"  said  Jeffrey  under 
his  breath,  as  he  again  fixed  the  sights  of  his  rifle, 
this  time  full  on  the  man's  breast. 

A  shot  rang  out  in  front  somewhere.  Rogers 
threw  up  his  hands,  took  a  half  step  forward,  and 
fell  on  his  face. 

Jeffrey,  his  finger  still  clinging  to  the  trigger 
which  he  had  not  pulled,  ran  forward  to  where 
the  man  lay. 

He  was  lying  face  down,  his  arms  stretched  out 
wide  at  either  side,  his  fingers  convulsively  clutch- 
ing at  tufts  of  grass. 

He  was  dying.     No  need  for  a  second  look. 
His   hat   had    fallen   off   to   a   little    distance. 
There  was  a  clean  round  hole  in  the  back  of  the 
skull.     The  close-cropped,  iron  grey  hair  showed 
just  the  merest  streak  of  red. 

Just  out  of  reach  of  one  of  his  hands  lay  a  still 
flaming  railroad  torch,  with  which  he  had  done  his 
work. 

Jeffrey  peered  through  the  wood  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  shot  had  come.  There  was 
no  smoke,  no  t.oise  of  any  one  running  away,  no 
sign  of  another  human  being  anywhere. 

Away  back  of  him  he  heard  shots,  one,  two, 


HI 


THE  ANSWER 


133 


three;  Stocking,  probably,  or  some  of  the  other 
men  who  must  be  in  the  neighbourhood,  firing  at 
other  fleeing  figures  In  the  woods. 

He  grabbed  the  burning  torch,  pulled  out  the 
wick  and  stamped  it  into  a  patch  of  burnt  ground, 
threw  the  torch  back  from  the  fire  line,  and  started 
clubbing  the  fire  out  of  the  grass  with  the  butt  of 
his  rifle. 

He  was  quickly  brought  to  his  senses,  when  the 
forgotten  cartridge  in  his  gun  accidentally  ex- 
ploded and  the  bullet  went  whizzing  past  his  ear. 
He  dropped  the  gun  nervously  and  finding  a  sharp 
piece  of  sapling  he  began  to  work  furiously,  but 
systematically  at  the  line  of  fire. 

The  line  was  thin  here,  where  it  had  really  only 
that  moment  been  started,  and  he  made  some 
headway.  But  as  he  worked  along  to  where  it 
had  gotten  a  real  start  he  saw  that  it  was  useless. 
Still  he  clung  to  his  work.  It  was  the  only  thing 
that  his  numbed  brain  could  think  of  to  do  for  the 
moment. 

He  dug  madly  with  the  sapling,  throwing  the 
loose  dirt  furiously  after  the  fire  as  it  ran  away 
from  him.  He  leaped  upon  the  line  of  the  fire 
and  stamped  at  it  with  his  boots  until  the  fire  crept 
up  his  trousers  and  shirt  and  up  even  to  his  hair. 
And  still  the  fire  ran  away  from  him,  away  down 
the  hill  after  its  real  prey.  He  looked  farther 
on  along  the  line  and  saw  that  it  was  not  now  a  line 
but  a  charging,  rushing  river  of  flame  that  ran 


I. 


«l 


I 


i. 


111-. 


til 


11 ; 


M 


134     THE  SHIPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

down  the  hill,  twenty  feet  at  a  jump.  Nothing, 
nothing  on  earth,  except  perhaps  a  deluge  of  rain 
could  now  stop  that  torrent  of  fire. 

He  stepped  back.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done  here  now,  behind  the  fire.  Nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  get  ahead  of  it  and  save  what  could 
be  saved.     He  looked  around  for  his  horse. 

Just  then  men  came  riding  along  the  back  of  the 
line,  Stocking  and  old  Erskine  Beasley  in  the  lead. 
They  came  up  to  where  Jeffrey  was  standing  and 
looked  on  beyond  moodily  to  where  the  body  of 
Rogers  lay. 

Jeffrey  turned  and  looked,  too.  A  silence  fell 
upon  the  little  group  of  horsemen  and  upon  the 
boy  standing  there. 

Myron  Stocking  spoke  at  last : 

"  Mine  got  away,  Jeff,"  he  said  slowly. 

Jeffrey  looked  up  quickly  at  him.     Then  the 
meaning  of  the  words  flashed  upon  him. 
^^  "I    didn't    do   that!"    he    exclaimed    hastily. 
"  Somebody  else  shot  him  from  the  woods.     My 
gun  went  off  accidental." 

Silence  fell  again  upon  the  little  group  of  men. 
They  did  not  look  at  Jeffrey.  They  had  heard 
but  one  shot.  The  shot  from  the  woods  had  been 
too  muffled  for  them  to  hear. 

Again  Stocking  broke  the  silence. 
^^  "What    difference    does    it   make,"    he    said. 
"  Any  of  us  would  have  done  it  if  we  could." 
"  But  I  didn't!     I  tell  you  I  didn't,"  shouted 


if^ 


THE  ANSWER 


135 


Jeffrey.  "  The  shot  from  the  woods  got  ahead  of 
me.  That  man  was  facing  me.  He  was  shot 
from  behind !  " 

Old  Erskine  Beasley  took  command. 

"What  difference  does  it  make,  as  Stocking 
says.  We've  got  live  men  and  women  and  chil- 
dren to  think  about  to-day,"  he  said.  "  Straighten 
him  out  decent.  Then  divide  and  go  around  the 
fire  both  ways.  The  alarm  can't  travel  half  fast 
enough  for  this  breeze,  and  it's  rising,  too,"  he 
added. 

"But  I  tell  you — !"  Jeffrey  began  again. 
Then  he  saw  how  useless  it  was. 

He  looked  up  the  hill  and  saw  his  horse,  which 
even  in  the  face  of  ♦■his  unheard-of  terror  had  pre- 
ferred to  venture  back  toward  his  master. 

He  caught  the  horse,  mounted,  and  started  to 
ride  south  with  the  party  that  was  to  try  to  get 
around  the  fire  from  that  side. 

He  rode  with  them.  They  were  his  friends. 
But  he  was  not  with  them.  There  was  a  circle 
drawn  around  him.  He  was  separated  from 
them.  They  probably  did  not  feel  it,  but  he  felt 
it.  It  is  a  circle  which  draws  itself  ever  around 
a  man  who,  justly  or  unjustly,  is  thought  guilty  of 
blood.  Men  may  applaud  his  deed.  Men  may 
say  that  they  themselves  would  wish  to  have  done 
it.     But  the  circle  is  there. 

Then  Jeffrey  thought  of  his  Mother.  She 
would  not  see  that  circle. 


136  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Also  he  thought  of  a  girl.  The  girl  had  only  a 
few  hours  before  said  that  she  had  sometimes  seen 
even  murder  in  his  eyes. 


■   i 

.J 


■  .'.  i 

■...a 

^■^■H 

■^'j 

1 

MON   PERE   JE   ME   'CUSE 


Down  the  wide  slope  of  Bald  Mountain  the 
fire  raved  exultingly,  leaping  and  skipping  fan- 
tastically as  it  ran.  Tt  was  a  prisoner  released 
from  the  bondage  of  the  elements  that  had  held 
it.  It  was  a  spirit  drunk  with  sudden-found  free- 
dom. It  was  a  flood  raging  down  a  valley.  It 
was  a  maniac  at  large. 

The  broad  base  of  the  mountain  where  it  sat 
upon  the  backs  of  the  Lvver  hills  spread  out  fan- 
wise  to  a  width  of  five  miles.  The  fire  spread  its 
wings  as  it  came  down  until  it  swept  the  whole 
apron  of  the  mountain.  A  five-mile  wave  of  solid 
flame  rolled  down  upon  the  hills. 

Sleepy  cattle  on  the  hills  rising  for  their  early 
browse  missed  the  juicy  dew  from  the  grass. 
They  looked  to  where  the  sun  should  be  coming 
over  the  mountain  and  instead  they  saw  the  sun 
coming  down  the  side  of  the  mountain  in  a  blanket 
of  white  smoke.  They  left  their  feed  and  began 
to  huddle  together,  mooing  nervously  to  each 
other  about  this  thing  and  sniffing  the  air  and 
pawing  the  earth. 

Sleepy  hired  men  coming  out  to  drive  the  cattle 

137 


iti 


Iff    /"! 


1 
f 


II  [■■  :  ,  J 


i 


\  M^ 


'I  :  ■  n 


i^) 


if 


U4  t 

f  •■'1 


138     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

in  to  milking  looked  blinking  up  at  the  mountain, 
stood  a  moment  before  their  numb  minds  under- 
stood what  their  senses  were  telling  them,  then 
ran  shouting  back  to  the  farm  houses,  throwing 
open  pasture  gates  and  knocking  down  lengths  of 
fence  as  they  ran.  Some,  with  nothing  but  fear 
in  their  hearts,  ran  straight  to  the  barns  and 
mounting  the  best  horses  fled  down  the  roads  to 
the  west.  For  the  hireling  flees  because  he  is  a 
hireling. 

Sleepy  men  and  women  and  still  sleeping  chil- 
dren came  tumbling  out  of  the  houses,  to  look  up 
at  the  death  that  was  coming  down  to  them. 
Some  cried  in  terror.  Some  raged  and  cursed  and 
shook  foolish  fists  at  the  oncoming  enemy.  Some 
fell  upon  their  knees  and  lifted  hands  to  the  God 
of  fire  and  flood.  Then  each  ran  back  into  the 
house  for  his  or  her  treasure ;  a  litt'"*  bag  of  money 
under  a  mattress,  or  a  babe  in  its  crib,  or  a  little 
rifle,  or  a  dolly  of  rags. 

Frantic  horses  were  hastily  hitched  to  farm 
wagons.  The  treasures  were  quickly  bundled  in. 
Women  pushed  their  broods  up  ahead  of  them  into 
the  wagons,  ran  back  to  kiss  the  men  standing  at 
the  heads  of  the  sweating  horses,  then  climbed  to 
their  places  in  the  wagons  and  took  the  reins. 
For  twenty  miles,  down  break-neck  roads,  behind 
mad  horses,  they  would  have  to  hold  the  lives  of 
the  children,  the  horses,  and,  incidentally,  of  them- 
selves  in  their   hands.     But   they  were   capable 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        139 

hands,  brown,  and  strong  and  steady  as  the  mother 
hearts  that  went  with  them. 

They  would  have  preferred  to  stay  with  the 
men,  these  women.  But  it  was  the  law  that  they 
should  take  the  brood  and  run  to  safety. 

Men  stood  watching  the  wagons  until  they  shot 
out  of  sight  behind  the  trees  of  the  road.  Then 
they  turned  back  to  the  hopeless,  probably  useless 
fight.  They  could  do  little  or  nothing.  But  it 
was  the  law  that  men  must  stay  and  make  the 
fight.  They  must  go  out  with  shovels  to  the  very 
edge  of  their  own  clearing  and  dig  up  a  width  of 
new  earth  which  the  running  fire  could  not  cross. 
Thus  they  might  divert  the  fire  a  little.  They 
might  even  divide  it,  if  the  wind  died  down  a  little, 
so  that  it  would  roll  on  to  either  side  of  their 
homes. 

This  was  their  business.  There  was  little 
chance  that  they  would  succeed.  Probably  they 
would  have  to  drop  shovels  at  the  last  moment 
and  run  an  unequal  foot  race  for  their  lives.  But 
this  was  the  law,  that  every  man  must  stay  and  try 
to  make  his  own  little  clearing  the  point  of  an  en- 
termg  wedge  to  that  advancing  wall  of  fire.  No 
man,  no  ten  thousand  men  could  stop  the  fire. 
But,  against  all  probabilities,  some  one  man  might 
be  able,  by  some  chance  of  the  lay  of  the  ground, 
or  some  freak  of  the  wind,  to  split  off  a  sector  of 
«t.  That  sector  might  be  fought  and  narrowed 
down  by  other  men  until  it  was  beaten.     And  so 


■  •if  I 


(  f: 


>%., 


1  a. J 


I  i^ 


'I 

1:1 


.  ■  ■   i        *  t 


140    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

something  would  be  gained.  For  this  men  stayed, 
stifled  and  blinded,  and  fought  on  until  the  last 
possible  moment,  and  then  ran  past  their  already 
smoking  homes  and  down  the  wind  for  life. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  rode  southward  in  the  wake 
of  four  other  men  down  a  long  spiral  course 
towards  the  base  of  the  mountain.  Yesterday  he 
would  have  ridden  at  their  head.  He  would  have 
taken  the  place  of  leadership  and  command  among 
them  which  he  had  for  months  been  taking  in  the 
fight  against  the  railroad.  Probably  he  could  still 
have  had  that  place  among  them  if  he  had  tried  to 
assert  himself,  for  men  had  come  to  have  a  habit 
of  depending  upon  him.  But  he  rode  at  the  rear, 
dispirited  and  miserable. 

They  were  trying  to  get  around  the  fire,  so  that 
they  might  hang  upon  its  flank  and  beat  it  in  upon 
itself.  There  was  no  thought  now  of  getting 
ahead  of  it:  no  need  to  ride  ahead  giving  alarm. 
That  rolling  curtain  of  smoke  would  have  al- 
ready aroused  every  living  thing  ahead  of  it. 
They  could  only  hope  to  get  to  the  end  of  the  line 
of  fire  and  fight  it  inch  by  inch  to  narrow  the  path 
of  destruction  that  it  was  making  for  itself. 

If  the  wind  had  held  stiff  and  straight  down  the 
mountain  it  would  have  driven  the  fire  ahead  in  a 
line  only  a  little  wider  than  its  original  front. 
But  the  shape  of  the  mountain  caught  the  light 
breeze  as  it  came  down  and  twisted  it  away  always 
to  the  side.     So  that  the  end  of  the  fire  line  was 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE         141 

not  a  thin  edge  of  scattered  fire  that  could  be 
fought  and  stamped  back  but  was  a  whirling  in- 
verted funnel  of  flame  that  leaped  and  danced  ever 
outward  and  onward. 

Half  way  down  the  mountain  they  thought  that 
they  had  outflanked   it.     They  slid   from  their 
horses  and  began  to  beat  desperately  at  the  brush 
and  grasses  among  the  trees.     They  gained  upon 
it.     They  were  doing  something.     They  shouted 
to  each  other  when  they  had  driven  it  back  even  a 
foot.     They  fought  it  madly  for  the  possession  of 
a  single  tree.     They  were  gaining.     They  were 
turning  the  edge  of  it  in.     The  hot  sweat  began  to 
streak  the  caking  grime  upon  their  faces.     There 
was  no  air  to  breathe,  only  the  hot  breath  of  fire. 
But  it  was  heartsome  work,  for  they  were  surely 
pushing  the  fire  in  upon  itself. 

A  sudden  swirl  of  the  wind  threw  a  dense  cloud 
of  hot  white  smoke  about  them.  They  stood  still 
with  the  flannel  of  their  shirt-sleeves  pressed  over 
eyes  and  nostrils,  waiting  for  it  to  pass. 

When  they  could  look  they  saw  a  wall  of  fire 
bearing  down  upon  them  from  three  sides.  The 
wind  had  whirled  the  fire  backward  and  sidewise 
so  that  it  had  surrounded  the  meagre  little  space 
that  they  had  cleared  and  had  now  outflanked 
them.  Their  own  manoeuvre  had  been  turned 
ag'.inst  them.  There  was  but  one  way  to  run, 
straight  down  the  hill  with  the  fire  roaring  and 
panting   after   them.     It   was    a    playful,    tricky 


li 


I 


II 


I 


^1 


:'l  I:} 


I 


i. 


m  \ 


% 


142  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

monster  that  cackled  gleefully  behind  them,  laugh- 
ing  at  their  puny  efforts. 

Breathless  and  spent,  they  finally  ran  them- 
selves out  of  the  path  of  the  flames  and  dropped 
exhausted  in  safety  as  the  fire  went  roaring  by 
them  on  its  way. 

Their  horses  were  gone,  of  course.  The  fire 
in  its  side  leap  had  caught  them  and  they  had  fled 
shrieking  down  the  hill,  following  their  instinct 
to  hunt  water. 

The  men  now  began  to  understand  the  work 
that  was  theirs.  They  were  five  already  weary 
men.  All  day  and  all  night,  perhaps,  they  must 
follow  the  fire  that  travelled  almost  as  fast  as  they 
could  run  at  their  best.  And  they  must  hang  upon 
its  edge  and  fight  every  inch  of  the  way  to  fold 
that  edge  back  upon  itself,  to  keep  that  edge  from 
spreading  out  upon  them.  A  hundred  men  who 
could  have  flanked  the  fire  shoulder  to  shoulder  for 
a  long  space  might  have  accomplished  what  these 
five  were  trying  to  do.  For  them  it  was  impos- 
sible.    But  they  hung  on  in  desperation. 

Three  times  more  they  made  a  stand  and 
pushed  the  cage  of  the  fire  back  a  little,  each  time 
daring  to  hope  that  they  had  done  something. 
And  three  times  more  the  treacherous  wind 
whirled  the  fire  back  behind  and  around  them  so 
that  they  had  to  race  for  life. 

Now  they  were  down  off  the  straight  slope  of 
the  mountain  and  among  the  broken  hills.     Here 


I: 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        143 

their  work  was  entirely  hopeless  and  they  knew  it. 
They  knew  also  that  they  were  in  almost  momen- 
tary danger  of  being  cut  off  and  completely  sur- 
rounded. Here  the  fire  did  not  keep  any  steady 
edge  that  they  could  follow  and  attack.  The 
wind  eddied  and  whirled  about  among  the  broken 
peaks  of  the  hills  in  every  direction  and  with  it 
the  fire  ran  apparently  at  will. 

When  they  tried  to  hold  it  to  one  side  of  a 
hill  and  were  just  beginning  to  think  that  they  had 
won,  a  sudden  sweep  of  the  wind  would  send  a 
ring  of  fire  around  to  the  other  side  so  that  they 
saw  themselves  again  and  again  surrounded  and 
almost  cut  off. 

Ahead  of  them  now  there  was  one  hope :  to  hold 
the  fire  to  the  north  side  of  the  Chain.  The 
Chain  is  a  string  of  small  lakes  running  nearly  east 
and  west.  It  divides  the  hill  country  into  fairly 
even  portions.  If  they  could  keep  the  fire  north 
of  the  lakes  they  would  save  the  southern  half  of 
the  country.  Their  own  homes  all  lay  to  the 
north  of  the  lakes  and  they  were  now  doomed. 
But  that  was  a  matter  that  did  not  enter  here. 
What  was  gone  was  gone.  Their  loved  ones 
would  have  had  plenty  of  warning  and  would  be 
out  of  the  way  by  now.  The  men  were  fighting 
the  enemy  merely  to  save  what  could  be  saved. 
And  as  is  the  way  of  men  in  fight  they  began  to 
make  it  a  personal  quarrel  with  the  fire. 

They  began  to  grow  blindly  angry  at  their  op- 


I 


fw 


«■ 


:-■! 


t,  i^ 


144  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

ponent.  It  was  no  longer  an  impersonal,  natural 
creature  of  the  elements,  that  fire.  It  was  a  cun- 
nmg,  a  vicious,  a  mocking  enemy.  It  hated  them. 
They  hated  it.  Its  eyes  were  red  with  gloating 
over  them.  Their  eyes  were  red  and  bloodshot 
with  the  fury  of  their  battle.  Its  voice  was  hoarse 
with  the  roar  of  its  laughing  at  them.  Their 
voices  were  thick  and  their  lips  were  cracking  with 
the  hot  curses  they  hurled  back  at  it. 

They  had  forgotten  the  beg!  ning  of  the  quar- 
rel. All  but  one  of  them  had  forgotten  the  men 
whom  they  had  tracked  into  the  hills  last  night 
and  who  had  started  the  fire.  All  but  one  of  them 
had  forgotten  those  other  men,  far  away  and  safe 
and  cowardly,  who  had  sent  those  men  into  the 
hills  to  do  this  thing. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  had  not  forgotten.  But  as  the 
day  wore  on  and  the  fight  waxed  more  bitter  and 
more  hopeless,  even  he  began  to  lose  sight  of  the 
beginning  and  to  make  it  his  own  single  feud  with 
the  fire.  He  fought  and  was  beaten  back  and 
ran  and  went  back  to  fight  again,  until  there  was 
but  one  thought,  if  it  could  be  called  a  thought,  in 
his  brain:  to  fight  on,  bitterly,  doggedly,  without 
mercy,  without  quarter  given  or  asked  with  the 
demon  of  the  fire. 

Now  other  men  came  from  scattered,  far-flung 
homes  to  the  south  and  joined  the  five.  Two  hills 
stood  between  them  and  Sixth  Lake,  where  the 
Chain  began  and  stretched  away  to  the  west.     If 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        145 

they  could  hold  the  fire  to  the  north  of  these  two 
hills  then  it  would  sweep  along  the  north  side  of 
the  lakes  and  the  other  half  of  the  country  would 
be  safe. 

The  first  hill  was  easy.  They  took  their  stand 
along  its  crest.  The  five  weary,  scarred,  singed 
men,  their  voices  gone,  their  swollen  tongues  pro- 
truding through  their  splitting  lips,  took  new 
strength  from  the  help  that  had  come  to  them. 
They  fought  the  enemy  back  down  the  north  side 
of  the  hill,  foot  by  foot,  steadily,  digging  with 
charred  sticks  and  throwing  earth  and  small  stones 
down  upon  it. 

They  were  beating  it  at  last !  Only  another 
hill  like  this  and  their  work  would  be  done.  They 
would  strike  the  lake  and  water.  Water!  God 
in  Heaven  1  Water!  A  whole  big  lake  of  it! 
To  throw  themselves  into  it!  To  sink  into  its 
cool,  sweet  depth !  And  to  drink,  and  drink  and 
drink! 

Between  the  two  hills  ran  a  deep  ravine  heavy 
with  undergrowth.  Here  was  the  worst  place. 
Here  they  stood  and  ran  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
fighting  waist  deep  in  the  brush  and  long  grass, 
the  hated  breath  of  the  fire  in  their  nostrils.  And 
they  held  their  line.  They  pushed  the  fire  on  past 
the  ravine  and  up  the  north  slope  of  the  last  hill. 
They  had  won !     It  could  not  beat  them  now ! 

As  he  came  around  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  saw 
the  shining  body  of  the  placid  lake  below  him  one 


*  ■      ■ 


I 


>i 


If! 


II 


I  i 


II 


^:  t  ll 


li 


.  1 1 


I     'i       ! 


146     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

of  the  new  men,  who  still  had  voice,  raised  a  shout. 
It  ran  back  along  the  line,  even  the  five  who  had 
no  voice  croaking  out  what  would  have  been  a 
cry  of  triumph. 

But  the  wind  heard  them  and  laughed. 
Through  the  ravine  which  they  had  safcl.  crossed 
with  such  mighty  labour  the  playful  wind  sent  a 
merry,  flirting  little  gust,  a  draught.  On  the 
draught  the  lingering  flames  went  dancing  swiftly 
through  the  brush  of  the  ravine  and  spread  out 
around  the  southern  side  of  the  hill.  Before  the 
men  could  turn,  the  thing  was  done.  The  hill 
made  itself  into  a  chimney  and  the  flames  went 
roaring  to  the  top  of  it. 

The  men  fled  over  the  ridge  of  the  hill  and 
down  to  the  south,  to  get  themselves  out  of  that 
encircling  death. 

When  they  were  beyond  the  circle  of  fire  on 
that  side,  they  saw  the  full  extent  of  what  had  be- 
fallen them  in  what  had  been  their  moment  of 
victory. 

Not  only  would  the  fire  come  south  of  the  lake 
and  the  Chain  — but  they  themselves  could  not 
get  near  the  lake. 

Water !  There  it  lay,  below  them,  at  their  feet 
almost!  And  they  could  not  reach  it!  The  fire 
was  marching  in  a  swift,  widening  line  between 
them  and  the  lake.  Not  so  much  as  a  little  finger 
might  they  wet  in  the  lake. 

Men  lay  down  and  wept,  or  cursed,  or  gritted 


=^1 


MON  I'tRL:  JE  ME  'CLSE         147 

silent  teeth,  according  to  the  nature  that  was  in 
each 

Jeffrey  Whiting  stood  up,  looking  towards  the 
lak..     He  saw  two  men  pushing  a  boat  into  the 
■  ake.      Through  the  shifting  curtain  of  smoke  and 
waving  fire  he  studied  them  out  of  blistered  eyes 
They  were  not  men  of  the  hills. 

They  were !  —  They  were  the  real  enemy !  — 
They  were  two  of  those  who  had  set  the  fire' 
rhey  had  not  stopped  to  fight  fire.  They  had 
headed  straight  for  the  lake  and  had  gotten  there. 
I  hey  were  safe.     And  they  had  water/ 

All  the  hot  rage  of  the  morning,  seared  into  him 
by  the  fighting  fire  fury  of  the  day,  rushed  back 
upon  him. 

He  had  not  killed  a  man  this  morning.  Men 
said  he  had,  but  he  had  not. 

Now  he  would  kill.     The  fire  should  not  stop 
him.     He  would  kill  those  two  there  in  the  water 
In  the  water/ 

He  ran  madly  down  the  slope  and  into  the 
flaming,  fuming  maw  of  the  fire.  He  went  blind. 
His  foot  struck  a  root.  He  fell  heavily  forward, 
his  face  buried  in  a  patch  of  bare  earth. 

Men  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  fire  and  dragged 
h.m  out  by  the  feet.  When  they  had  brought  him 
back  to  safety  and  had  fanned  breath  into  him  with 
their  hate,  he  opened  bleared  eyes  and  looked  at 
them.  As  he  understood,  he  turned  on  his  face 
moaning; 


m 


148    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NC  ''    .. 

"  I  didn  t  kill  Rogers.  I  wish  I  had  —  I  wish 
I  had." 

And  south  and  north  of  the  Chain  the  fire  rolled 
away  into  the  west. 


'^\ 


N< 


The  Bishop  of  Alden  looked  restlessly  out  of 
the  window  as  the  intolerable,  sooty  train  jolted 
its  slow  way  northward  along  the  canal  and  the 
Black  River.     He  had  left  Albany  in  the  very 
early  hours  of  the  morning.     Now  it  was  nearing 
noon  and  there  were  yet  eighty  miles,  four  hours, 
of  this  interminable  journey  before  he  could  find 
a  good  wash  and  rest  and  some  clean  food.     But 
he   was  not  hungry,   neither  was  he  querulous. 
There  were  worse  ways  of  travel  than  even  by  a 
slow  and  dusty  train.     And  in  his  wide-flung,  rock- 
strewn  diocese  the  Bishop  had  found  plenty  of 
them.     He  was  never  one  to  complain.     A  gentle 
philosophy  of  all  life,  a  long  patience  that  saw  and 
understood  the  faults  of  high  and  low,  a  slow, 
quiet  gleam  of  New  England  humour  at  the  back 
of  his  light  blue  eyes;  with  Christ,   and  these 
things,  Joseph  Winthrop  contrived  to  be  a  very 
good  man  and  a  very  good  bishop. 

But  to-day  he  was  not  content  with  things.  He 
had  done  one  thing  in  Albany,  or  rather,  he  would 
have  said,  he  had  seen  it  done.  He  had  appealed 
to  the  conscience  of  the  people  of  the  State.  And 
the  conscience  of  the  people  had  replied  in  no  mis- 
takable  terms  that  the  U.  &  M.  Railroad  must  not 


im  I 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        149 

dare  to  drive  the  people  of  the  hills  from  their 
homes  for  the  sake  of  what  might  lie  beneath  their 
land.  Then  the  conscience  of  the  people  of  the 
State  had  gone  off  about  its  business,  as  the  public 
conscience  has  a  way  of  doing.  The  public  would 
forget.  The  public  always  forgets.  He  had  fur- 
nished  it  with  a  mild  sensation  which  had  aroused 
It  for  a  time,  a  matter  of  a  few  days  at  most. 
He  did  not  hope  for  even  the  proverbial  nine  days. 
But  the  railroad  would  not  forget.  It  never  slept. 
For  there  were  men  behind  it  who  said,  and  kept 
on  saying,  that  they  must  have  results. 

He  was  sure  that  the  railroad  would  strike  back. 
And  it  would  strike  in  some  way  that  would  be  ef- 
fective, but  that  et  would  hide  the  hand  that 
struck. 

Thirty  miles  to  the  right  of  him  as  he  rode 
north  lay  the  line  of  the  first  hills.  Beyond  them 
stood  the  softly  etched  outlines  of  the  mountains, 
their  white-blue  tones  blending  gently  into  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky  behind  them. 

Forty  miles  away  he  could  make  out  the  break 
in  the  line  where  Old  Forge  lay  and  the  Chain  be- 
gan. Beyond  that  lay  Bald  Mountain  and  the  di- 
vide. But  he  could  not  see  Bald  Mountain. 
That  was  strange.  The  day  was  very  clear.  He 
had  noticed  that  there  had  been  no  dew  that  morn- 
ing. There  might  have  been  a  little  haze  on  the 
hills  in  the  early  morning.  But  this  sun  would 
have  cleared  that  all  away  by  now. 


m 

I 


*•: 


It 


i 
i 


U,i     J 


150     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Bald  Mountain  was  as  one  of  the  points  of  the 
compass  on  his  journey  up  this  side  of  his  dio- 
cese. He  had  never  before  missed  it  on  a  fair 
day.  It  was  something  more  to  him  than  a  mere 
bare  rock  set  on  the  top  of  other  rocks.  It  was 
one  of  his  marking  posts.  And  when  you  re- 
member that  his  was  a  charge  of  souls  scattered 
over  twenty  thousand  square  miles  of  broken 
country,  you  will  see  that  he  had  need  of  marking 
posts. 

Bald  Mountain  was  the  limit  of  the  territory 
which  he  could  reach  from  the  western  side  of  his 
diocese.  When  he  had  to  go  into  the  country  to 
the  east  of  the  mountain  he  must  go  all  the  way 
south  to  Albany  and  around  by  North  Creek  or 
he  must  go  all  the  way  north  and  east  by  Malone 
and  Rouses  Point  and  then  south  and  west  again 
into  the  mountains.  The  mountain  was  set  in  al- 
most the  geographical  centre  of  his  diocese  and 
he  had  travelled  towards  it  from  north,  east,  south 
and  west. 

He  missed  his  mountain  now  and  rubbed  his 
eyes  in  a  troubled,  perplexed  way.  When  the 
train  stopped  at  the  next  little  station  he  went  out 
on  the  platform  for  a  clearer,  steadier  view. 

Again  he  rubbed  his  eyes.  The  clear  gap  be- 
tween the  hills  where  he  knew  Old  Forge  nestled 
was  gone.  The  open  rift  of  sky  that  he  had 
recognised  a  few  moments  before  was  now  filled, 
as  though  a  mountain  had  suddenly  been  moved 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        151 

into  the  gap.  He  went  back  to  his  seat  and  sat 
watching  the  line  of  the  mountains.  As  he 
watched,  the  whole  contour  of  the  hills  that  he 
had  known  was  changed  under  his  very  eyes. 
1  eaks  rose  where  never  were  peaks  before,  and 
rounded,  smooth  skulls  of  mountains  showed 
agamst  the  sky  where  sharp  peaks  should  have 
been. 

He  looked  once  more,  and  a  sharp,  swift  sus- 
picion shot  into  his  mind,  and  stayed.  Then  a 
just  and  terrible  anger  rose  up  in  the  soul  of 
Joseph  Winthrop,  Bishop  of  Alden,  for  he  was  a 
man  of  gentle  heart  whose  passions  ran  deep  be- 
low  a  placid  surface. 

At  Booneville  he  stepped  off  the  train  before 
It  had  stopped  and  hurried  to  the  operator's  win- 
dow  to  ask  if  any  news  had  gone  down  the  wire  of 
a  hre  in  the  hills. 

Jerry  Hogan,  the  operator,  sat  humped  up  over 
his  table  "listening  in"  with  shameless  glee  to 
a  flirtatious  conversation  that  was  going  over  the 
wire,  contrary  to  all  rules  and  regulations  of  the 
Company,  between  the  young  lady  operator  at 
Snowden  and  the  man  in  the  office  at  Steuben. 
The  Bishop  asked  a  hurried,  anxious  question. 
Without  looking  up,  Jerry  answered  sorrow- 
fully : 

"  This  ain't  the  bulletin  board.     We're  busy." 

The  Bishop  stood  quiet  a  moment. 

Then   Jerry   looked    up.     The    face    looking 


li  ! 


s  *  1  '  'i 


ti 


■r,\ 


M: 


II 


1^  ■:  ^i 


ffi 


I 


152  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

calmly  through  the  window  was  the  face  of  one 
who  had  once  tapped  him  on  the  cheek  as  a  re- 
minder of  certain  things. 

Jerry  fell  off  his  high  stool,  landing,  miracu- 
lously, on  his  feet.  He  grabbed  at  his  front  lock 
of  curly  red  hair  and  gasped: 

"I  —  I'm  sorry,  Bishop !  I  —  I  —  didn't  hear 
what  you  said." 

The  Bishop  —  if  one  might  say  it  —  grinned. 
Then  he  said  quickly: 

"  I  thought  I  saw  signs  of  fire  in  the  hills. 
Have  you  heard  anything  on  the  wire?  " 

Jerry  had  seen  the  wrinkles  around  the  Bishop's 
mouth.  The  beet  red  colour  of  his  face  had  gone 
down  several  degrees.  The  freckles  were  com- 
ing back.     He  was  now  coherent. 

No  he  had  not  heard  anything.  He  was  sure 
nothing  had  come  down  the  wire.  Just  then  the 
rapid-fire,  steady  clicking  of  the  key  changed 
abruptly  to  the  sharp,  staccato  insistence  of  a 
"  call." 

Jerry  held  up  his  hand.  "  Lowville  calling 
Utica,"  he  said.  They  waited  a  little  and  then: 
"  Call  State  Warden.  F[:e  Beaver  Run  country. 
Call  everything,"  Jerry  repeated  from  the 
sounder,  punctuating  for  the  benefit  of  the  Bishop. 

"  It  must  be  big.  Bishop,"  he  said,  turning,  "  or 
they  wouldn't  call  — " 

But  the  Bishop  was  already  running  for  the 
steps  of  his  departing  train. 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        153 

Af  LowviUe  he  left  the  train  and  hurried  to 
Father  Brady's  house.  Finding  the  priest  out  on 
a  call,  he  begged  a  hasty  lunch  from  the  house- 
keeper, and,  commandeering  some  riding  clothes 
and  Father  Brady's  saddle  horse,  he  was  soon  on 
the  road  to  French  Village  and  the  hills. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  the  rural  telephone 
and  there  was  no  telegraph  up  the  hill  road.  A 
messenger  had  come  down  from  the  hills  a  half 
hour  ago  to  the  telegraph  office.  But  there  was 
no  alarm  among  the  people  of  Lowville,  for  there 
lay  twenty  miles  of  well  cultivated  country  be- 
tween  them  and  the  hills.  If  they  noticed  Fa- 
ther  Eady's  clothes  riding  furiously  out  toward 
the  hill  road,  they  gave  the  matter  no  more  than 
a  mild  wonder. 

For  twenty.two  miles  the  Bishop  rode  steadily 
up  the  hard  dirt  road  over  which  he  and  Arsene 
LaComb  had  struggled  in  the  beginning  of  the 
winter  before.  He  thought  of  Tom  Lansing,  who 
had  died  that  night.  He  thought  of  the  many 
thmgs  that  had  in  some  way  had  their  beginning 
on  that  night,  all  leading  up,  more  or  less,  to  this 
present  moment.  But  more  than  all  he  thought 
of  Jeffrey  Lansing  and  other  desperate  men  up 
there  in  the  hills  fighting  for  their  lives  and  their 
little  all. 

He  did  not  know  who  had  started  this  fire.  It 
might  well  have  started  accidentally.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  railroad  people  had  sent  men  into 


It 


^1 


i.i;i-? 


[     1 


I 


I 


,.  t 

1  fc 

,;  ,'i  i 

■'-,]    ! 

■■iA  i 

t4  \ 

j 

h 

li' 

M 

1 

i 

1 

154     TFIE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

the  hills  to  start  It.  But  if  they  had,  and  if  those 
men  were  caught  by  the  men  of  the  hills,  then 
^ere  would  be  swift  and  bloody  justice  done. 
I  he  Bishop  thought  of  this  and  he  rode  Father 
Brady's  horse  as  that  good  animal  had  never  been 
ridden  m  the  course  of  his  well  fed  life. 

Nearing  Corben's,  he  saw  that  the  horse  could 
go  but  little  farther.     Registering  a  remonstrance 
to  father  Brady,  anent  the  matter  of  keeping 
h.s  horse  too  fat,  he  rode  up  to  bargain  with 
Corben  for  a  fresh  horse.     Corben  looked  at  the 
horse    from    which    the    Bishop    had    just    slid 
swiftly  down.     He  demanded  to  know  the  Bish- 
op  s  destination  in  the  hiMs  —  which  was  vague, 
and  his  business  —  which  was  still  more  vague. 
He  looked  at  the  Bishop.     He  closed  one  eye  and 
reviewed  the  whole  matter  critically.     Finally  he 
guessed  that  the   Bishop   could  have  the   fresh 
horse  if  he  bought  and  paid  for  it  on  the  spot. 

1  he  Bishop  explained  that  he  did  not  have  the 
money  about  him.  Corben  believed  that.  The 
Bishop  explained  that  he  was  the  bishop  of  the 
diocese.     Corben  did  not  believe  that. 

In  the  end  the  Bishop,  chafing  at  the  delay, 
persuaded  the  man  to  believe  him  and  to  accept 
his  surety  for  the  horse.  And  taking  food  in  his 
pockets  he  pressed  on  into  the  high  hills. 

Already  he  had  met  wagons  loaded  with  women 
and  children  on  the  road.  But  he  knew  that  they 
would  be  of  those  who  lived  nearest  the  fringe  of 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        155 

^d  h'i"''  ,7^^\^°"^^  ^^^^  little  more  than  he 
did  himself  of  the  origin  of  the  fire  or  of  what 

TIZ^  °""P  there  under  and  beyond  that  pall 
of  smoke^    So  he  did  not  stop  to  question  them. 
INow  the  road  began  to  be  dotted  with  these 
wagons  of  the  fleeing  ones,  and  some  seemed  to 
have  come  far.     Twice  he  stopped  long  enough 
to  ask  a  question  or  two.     But  their  replies  gave 
h.m  no  real  knowledge  of  the  situation.     They 
had  been  called  fron.  their  beds  in  the  early  morn! 
'ng   by   the    fire.     Their   men    had    stayed     the 
women  had  fled  with  the  children.     That  w;s  all 
they  could  tell. 

As  he  came  to  Lansing  Mountain,  he  met  Ruth 

.n'rT"?-rR  ""^  ^°""  "^°^^'"g  M"-  Whiting 
and  Letitia  Bascom.     From  this  the  Bishop  knew 

without  askmg  that  the  fire  was  now  coming  near, 
for  these  women  would  not  have  left  their  homes 
except  m  the  nearness  of  danger. 

In  fact  the  two  older  women  had  only  yielded 
to  the  most  peremptory  authority,  exercised  by 
Ruth  m  the  name  of  Jeffrey  Whiting.  Even  to 
the  end  gentle  Letitia  Bascom  had  rebelled  vigor- 
ously agamst  the  idea  that  Cassius  Bascom,  who 
was  notoriously  unable  to  look  after  himself  in 

W.  Tu'  7  "\'y  '^'"^^  °^  ^•^^'  ^^0"^d  now  be 
left  behind  on  the  mere  argument  that  he  was  a 
man. 

The  Bishop's  first  question  concerned  Jeffrey 
Whiting.     Ruth  told  what  she  knew.     That  a 


Mi 


f 

s 

i    ■ 

i 

1' 

n     ! 

!! 

■•  « 


tJ 


156     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

man  had  met  herself  and  Jeffrey  on  the  road  yes- 
terday; that  the  man  had  brought  news  of  strange 
men  being  seen  In  the  hills;  that  Jeffrey  had  ridden 
away  with  him  toward  Bald  Mountain. 

The  Bishop  understood.  Bald  Mountain 
would  be  the  place  to  be  watched.  He  could  even 
conjecture  the  night  vigil  on  the  mountain,  and 
the  breaking  of  the  fire  in  the  dawn.  He  could 
see  the  desperate  and  futile  struggle  with  the  fire 
as  it  reached  down  to  the  hills.  Back  of  that 
screen  of  fire  there  was  the  setting  of  a  tragedy 
darker  even  than  the  one  of  the  fire  itself. 

"  He  had  my  letter?  "  the  Bishop  asked,  when 
he  had  heard  all  that  Ruth  had  to  tell. 
"  Yes.     We  had  just  read  it." 
"  He  went  armed?  "  said  the  Bishop  quietly. 
"  Myron    Stocking   brought    Jeffrey's    gun    to 
him,"  the  girl  answered  simply,  with  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  all  that  the  question  and  answer  implied. 
The  men  had  gone  armed,  prepared  to  kill, 

"  They  will  all  be  driven  in  upon  French  Vil- 
lage," said  the  Bishop  slowly.  "  The  wind  will 
not  hold  any  one  direction  in  the  high  hills.  Lit- 
tle Tupper  Lake  may  be  the  only  refuge  for  all 
in  the  end.  The  road  from  here  there,  is  it  open, 
do  you  know?  " 

"  No  one  has  come  down  from  that  far,"  said 
Ruth.  "  We  have  watched  the  people  on  the 
road  all  day.  But  probably  they  would  not  leave 
the  lake.     And  if  th.^  did  they  would  go  north 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        157 

by  the  river.  But  the  road  certainly  won't  be 
open  long.  The  fire  is  spreading  north  as  it 
comes  down." 

"I  must  hurry,  then,"  said  the  Bishop,  grip- 
ping  h:s  reins.  *=*   * 

D  "u^^'.I^!^^  ^°"  ^^""°^'  y°"  "^"s*  "<5t!  "  exclaimed 
Kuth.  You  will  be  trapped.  You  can  never  go 
through  We  are  the  last  to  leave,  except  a  h^v 
men  with  fast  horses  who  know  the  country  every 
step.  You  cannot  go  through  on  the  road,  and  if 
you  leave  it  you  will  be  lost." 

D-'i.^^,"'.  ^,  ^^"  ^^^^y^  ^^'"^  back,"   said  the 
Bishop  lightly,  as  he  set  his  horse  up  the  hill 

p- u^^mS^".'^"""^-     ^^"'^  y°"  ^'^t^"'  please, 
Bishop,    Ruth  pleaded  after  him.     *'  The  fire  may 

cross  behind  you,  and  you'll  be  trapped  on  the 
road  I  " 

But  the  Bishop  was  already  riding  swiftly  up 
the  hill.  Whether  he  heard  or  not,  he  did  not 
answer  or  look  back. 

Ruth  sat  in  her  saddle  looking  up  the  road  after 
him.  She  did  not  know  whether  or  not  he  real- 
ised  his  danger.  Probably  he  did,  for  he  was  a 
quick  man  to  weigh  things.  Even  the  knowledge 
of  his  danger  would  not  drive  him  back.  She 
knew  that. 

She  knew  the  business  upon  which  he  went 
No  doubt  it  was  one  in  which  he  was  ready  to 
risk  his  life.  He  had  said  that  they  would  all 
be  dnven  in  upon  Little  Tuppcr.     In  that  he 


X 

3 


I  4 


f 

m 


ill 


It- 


II  K 

Ill 


I 


liif^M 


.  li 


158     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

meant  hunters  and  hunted  alike.  For  there  were 
the  hunters  and  the  hunted.  The  men  of  the  hills 
would  be  up  there  behind  the  wall  of  fire  or  work- 
ing along  down  beside  it.  But  while  they  fought 
the  fire  they  would  be  hunting  the  brush  and  the 
smoke  for  the  traces  of  other  men.  Those  other 
men  would  maybe  be  trapped  by  the  swift  running 
of  the  fire.  All  might  be  driven  to  seek  safety 
together.  The  hunted  men  would  flee  from  the 
fire  to  a  death  just  as  certain  but  which  they  would 
prefer  to  face. 

The  Bishop  was  riding  to  save  the  lives  of 
those  men.  Also  he  was  riding  to  keep  the  men 
of  the  hills  from  murder.  Jeffrey  would  be 
among  them.  Only  yesterday  she  had  spoken 
that  word  to  him. 

But  he  can  do  neither,  she  thought.  He  will 
be  caught  on  the  road,  and  before  he  will  give  in 
and  turn  back  he  will  be  trapped. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  the  top  of  the  hill,"  she 
said  suddenly  to  Mrs.  Whiting.  "  I  want  to  see 
what  it  looks  like  now.  Go  on  down.  I  will 
catch  you  before  long." 

"  No.  We  will  pull  in  at  the  side  of  the  road 
here  and  wait  for  you.  Don't  go  past  the  hill. 
We'll  wait.  There's  no  danger  down  here  yet, 
and  won't  be  for  some  time." 

Brom  Bones  made  short  work  of  the  hill,  for 
he  was  fresh  and  all  day  long  he  had  been  held 
in  tight  when  he  had  wanted  to  run  away.     He 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        159 

did  not  know  what  that  thing  was  from  which  he 
h-.d  all  day  been  wanting  to  run.  But  he  knew 
chat  if  he  had  been  his  own  master  he  would  have 
run  very  far,  hunting  water.  So  now  he  bolted 
quickly  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 

But  the  Bishop,  too,  was  riding  a  fresh  horse 
and  was  not  sparing  him.  When  Ruth  came  to 
the  top  of  the  hill  she  saw  the  Bishop  nearly  a 
mile  away,  already  past  her  own  home  and  mount- 
ing the  long  hill. 

She  stood  watching  Lim,  undecided  what  to  do. 
The  chances  were  all  against  him.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  understand  how  certainly  those  chances 
stood  against  him.  And  yet,  he  looked  and  rode 
like  a  man  who  knew  the  chances  and  was  ready 
to  measure  himself  agJiinst  them. 

"  Brom  Bones  could  catch  him,  I  think,"  she 
said  as  she  watched  him  up  the  long  hill.  "  But 
we  could  not  make  him  come  back  until  it  was  too 
late.  I  wonder  if  I  am  afraid  to  try.  No,  I 
don't  think  I'm  afraid.  Only  somehow  he  seems 
—  seems  different.  He  doesn't  seem  just  like  a 
man  that  was  reckless  or  ignorant  of  his  danger. 
No.  He  knows  all  about  it.  But  it  doesn't 
count.  He  is  a  man  going  on  business  —  God's 
business.     I  wonder." 

Now  she  saw  him  against  the  rim  of  the  sky 
as  he  went  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where 
Jeffrey  and  she  had  stopped  yesterday.  He  was 
not  a  pretty  figure  of  a  rider.     He  rode  stiffly, 


s  -  «: 


■fe 


i;;;,i* 


:■  ,i. 


L    f 


I 


160  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

for  he  was  very  tired  from  the  unusual  ride,  and 
he  crouched  forward,  saving  his  horse  all  that  he 
could,  but  he  was  a  figure  not  easily  to  be  forgot- 
ten as  he  disappeared  over  the  crown  of  the  hill, 
seeming  to  ride  right  on  into  the  sky. 

Suddenly  she  felt  Brom  Bones  quiver  under  her. 
He  was  looking  away  to  the  right  of  the  long,  ter- 
raced hill  before  her.  The  fire  was  coming, 
sweeping  diagonally  down  across  the  face  of  the 
hill  straight  toward  her  home. 

All  her  life  she  had  been  hearing  of  forest  fires. 
Hardly  a  summer  had  passed  within  her  memory 
when  the  menace  of  them  had  not  been  present 
among  the  hills.  She  had  grown  up,  as  all  hill 
children  did,  expecting  to  some  day  have  to  fly 
for  her  life  before  one.  But  she  had  never  be- 
fore  seen  a  wall  of  breathing  fire  marching  down 
a  hill  toward  her. 

For  moments  the  sight  held  her  enthralled  in 
wonder  and  awe.  It  was  a  living  thing,  moving 
down  the  hillside  with  an  intelligent,  defined 
course  for  itself.  She  saw  it  chase  a  red  deer 
and  a  silver  fox  down  the  hill.  It  could  not  catch 
those  timid,  fleet  animals  in  the  open  chase.  But 
if  they  halted  or  turned  aside  it  might  come  upon 
them  and  surround  them. 

While  she  looked,  one  part  of  her  brain  was 
numbed  by  the  sight,  but  the  other  part  was  think- 
ing  rapidly.     This  was  not  the  real  fire.     This 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        i6i 

was  only  one  great  paw  of  fire  that  shot  out  be- 
fore  the  body,  to  sweep  in  any  foolish  thing  that 
did  not  at  first  alarm  hurry  down  to  the  level  lands 
and  safety. 

The  body  of  the  fire,  she  was  sure,  was  coming 
on  m  a  solid  front  beyond  the  hill.     It  would  not 
yet  have  struck  the  road  up  which  the  Bishop  was 
hurrymg.     He  might  think  that  he  could  skirt  past 
It  and  get  into  French  Village  before  it  should 
cross  the  road.     But  she  was  sure  he  could  not 
do    so.     He    would    go    on    until    he    found    it 
squarely  before  him.     Then  he  would  have  to  turn 
back.     And  here  was  this  great  limb  of  fire  al- 
ready stretching  out  behind  him.     In  five  min- 
utes  he  would  be  cut  off.     The  formation  of  the 
hills  had  sent  the  wind  whirling  down  through  a 
gap  and  carrying  one  stream  of  fire  away  ahead 
of  the  rest.     The  Bishop  did  not  know  the  coun- 
try  to  the  north  of  the  road.     If  he  left  the  road 
he  could  only  flounder  about  and  wander  aimlessly 
until  the  fire  closed  in  upon  him. 

Ruth's  decision  was  taken  on  the  instant.  The 
two  women  did  not  need  her.  They  would 
know  enough  to  drive  on  down  to  safety  when 
they  saw  the  fire  surely  coming.  There  was  a 
man  gone  unblinking  into  a  peril  from  which  he 
would  not  know  how  to  escape.  He  had  gone  to 
save  life.  He  had  gone  to  prevent  crime.  If  he 
stayed  in  the  road  she  could  find  him  and  lead  him 


tl: 


1 62     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


1,    i  i 


(    ''      ." 


\m\ ' 


^1! 


out  to  the  north  and  probably  to  safety.  If  he  did 
not  stay  in  the  road,  well,  at  least,  she  could  only 
make  the  attempt. 

Brom  Bones  went  flying  along  the  slope  of  the 
road  towards  his  home.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  felt  the  cut  of  a  whip  on  his  flanks  —  to 
make  him  go  faster.  He  did  not  know  what  it 
meant.  Nothing  like  that  had  ever  been  a  part 
of  Brom  Bones'  scheme  of  life,  for  he  had  al- 
ways gone  as  fast  as  he  was  let  go.  But  it  did 
not  need  the  stroke  of  the  whip  to  madden  him. 

Down  across  the  slope  of  the  hill  in  front  of 
him  he  saw  a  great,  red  terror  racing  towards  the 
road  which  he  travelled.  If  he  could  not  under- 
stand the  girl's  words,  he  could  feel  the  thrill  of 
rising  excitement  in  her  voice  as  she  urged  him 
on,  saying  over  and  over : 

"You  can  make  it,  Brom!  I  know  you  can! 
I  never  struck  you  this  way  before,  did  I  ?  But 
it's  for  life  —  a  good  man's  life  !  You  can  make 
it.  I  know  you  can  make  it.  I  wouldn't  ask  you 
to  if  I  didn't  know.  You  can  make  it!  It  won't 
hurt  us  a  bit.  It  can't  hurt  us!  Bromie,  dear, 
I  tell  you  it  can't  hurt  us.     It  just  can't !  " 

She  crouched  out  over  the  horse's  shoulder, 
laying  her  weight  upon  her  hands  to  even  it  for 
the  horse.  She  stopped  striking  him,  for  she  saw 
that  neither  terror  nor  punishment  could  drive  him 
faster  than  he  was  going.  He  was  giving  her  the 
best  of  his  willing  heart  and  fleet  body. 


|!M 


MON  PFRE  JE  ME  'CUSE        163 

But  would  it  I  nough?  Fast  as  she  raced 
along  the  road  sle  saw  that  red  death  whirl- 
ing down  the  hillside,  to  cross  the  road  at  a 
point  just  above  her  home.  Could  she  pass  that 
point  before  the  fire  came?  She  did  not  know. 
And  when  she  came  to  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
where  the  fire  would  strike  the  road  she  still  did 
not  know  whether  she  could  pass  it.  Already  she 
could  feel  the  hot  breath  of  it  panting  down  upon 
her.  Already  showers  of  burning  leaves  and 
branches  were  whirling  down  upon  her  head  and 
shoulders.  If  her  horse  should  hesitate  or  bolt 
sidewise  now  they  would  both  be  burned  to  death. 
The  girl  knew  it.  And,  crouching  low,  talking 
into  his  mane,  she  told  him  so.  Perhaps  he,  too, 
knew  it.  He  did  not  falter.  Head  down,  he 
plunged  straight  into  the  blinding  blast  that  swept 
across  the  road. 

A  wave  of  heavy,  choking  smoke  struck  him  in 
the  face.  He  reeled  and  reared  a  little,  and  a 
moaning  whinny  of  fright  broke  from  him.  But 
he  felt  the  steady,  strong  little  hands  in  his  mane 
and  he  plunged  on  again,  through  the  smoke  and 
out  into  the  good  air. 

The  fire  laughed  and  leaped  across  the  road 
behind  them.  It  had  missed  them,  but  it  did  not 
care.  The  other  way,  it  would  not  have  cared, 
either. 

Ruth  eased  Brom  Bones  up  a  little  on  the  long 
slope  of  the  hill,  and  turning  looked  back  at  her 


ii 


i 


1.U 


Jll'r 


164    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

home.  The  farmer  had  long  since  gone  away 
with  his  family.  The  place  was  not  his.  The 
flames  were  already  leaping  up  from  the  grass 
to  the  windows  and  the  roof  was  taking  fire  from 
the  cinders  and  burning  branches  in  the  air.  But, 
where  everything  wp.s  burning,  where  a  whole 
country-side  was  being  swept  with  the  broom  of 
destruction,  her  personal  loss  did  not  seem  to  mat- 
ter much. 

Only  when  she  saw  the  flames  sweep  on  past 
the  house  and  across  the  hillside  and  attack  the 
trees  that  stood  guard  over  the  graves  of  her 
loved  ones  did  the  bitterness  of  it  enter  her  soul. 
She  revolted  at  the  cruel  wickedness  of  it  all. 
Her  heart  hated  the  fire.  Hated  the  men  who 
had  set  it.  (She  was  sure  that  men  had  set  it.) 
She  wanted  vengeance.  The  Bishop  was  wrong. 
Why  should  he  interfere  ?  Let  men  take  revenge 
in  the  way  of  men. 

But  on  the  instant  she  was  sorry  and  breathed 
a  little  prayer  of  and  for  forgiveness.  You  see, 
she  was  rather  a  downright  young  person.  And 
she  took  her  religion  at  its  word.  When  she 
said,  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,"  she  meant  just 
that.  And  when  she  said,  "  As  we  forgive  those 
who  trespass  against  us,"  she  meant  that,  too. 

The  Bishop  was  right,  of  course.  One  horror, 
one  sin,  would  not  heal  another. 

Coming  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  full  wonder 
and  horror  of  the  fire  burst  upon  her  with  ap- 


am 


m 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        165 

palling  force.  What  she  had  so  far  seen  was  but 
a  little  finger  of  the  fire,  crooked  around  a  hill. 
Now  in  front  and  to  the  right  of  her,  in  an  un- 
broken quarcer  circle  of  the  whole  horizon,  there 
ranged  a  living,  moving  mass  of  flame  that  seemed 
to  be  coming  down  upon  the  whole  world. 

She  knew  that  it  was  already  behind  her.  If 
she  had  thought  of  herself,  she  would  have  turned 
Brom  Bones  to  the  left,  away  from  the  road  and 
have  fled  away,  by  paths  she  knew  well,  to  the 
north  and  out  of  the  range  of  the  moving  terror. 
But  only  for  one  quaking  little  moment  did  she 
think  of  herself.  Along  that  road  ahead  of  her 
there  was  a  man,  a  good  man,  who  rode  bravely, 
unquestioningly,  to  almost  certain  death,  for 
others.  She  could  save  him,  perhaps.  So  far  as 
she  could  see,  the  fire  was  not  yet  crossing  the 
road  in  front.  The  Bishop  would  still  be  on  the 
road.  She  was  sure  of  that.  Again  she  asked 
Brom  Bones  for  his  brave  best. 

The  Bishop  was  beginning  to  think  that  he 
might  yet  get  through  to  French  Village.  His 
watch  told  him  that  it  was  six  o'clock.  Soon  the 
sun  would  be  going  down,  though  in  the  impene- 
trable tenting  of  white  smoke  that  had  spread  high 
over  all  the  air  there  was  nothing  to  show  that 
a  sun  had  ever  shone  upon  the  earth.  With  the 
going  down  of  the  sun  the  wind,  too,  would  prob- 
ably die  away.     The  fire  had  not  yet  come  to  the 


■  i '  I 


■mH 


1 66  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

road  in  front  of  him.  If  the  wind  fell  the  fire 
would  advance  but  slowly,  and  would  hardly 
spread  to  the  north  at  all. 

He  was  not  discrediting  the  enemy  in  front. 
He  had  seen  the  mighty  sweep  of  the  fire  and 
he  knew  that  it  would  need  but  the  slightest  shift 
of  the  wind  to  send  a  wall  of  flame  down  upon 
him  from  which  he  would  have  to  run  for  his 
life.  He  did  not,  of  course,  know  that  the  fire 
had  already  crossed  the  road  behind  him.  But 
even  if  he  had,  he  would  probably  have  kept  on 
trusting  to  the  chance  of  getting  through  some- 
how. 

He  was  ascending  another  long  slope  of  coun- 
try where  the  road  ran  straight  up  to  the  east. 
The  fire  was  already  to  the  right  of  him,  sweep- 
ing along  in  a  steady  march  to  the  west.  It  was 
spreading  steadily  northward,  toward  the  road; 
but  he  was  hoping  that  the  hill  before  him  had 
served  to  hold  it  back,  that  it  had  not  really 
crossed  the  road  at  any  point,  and  that  when  he 
came  to  the  top  of  this  hill  he  would  be  able  to 
see  the  road  clear  before  him  up  to  French  Vil- 
lage. He  was  wearied  to  the  point  of  exhaustion, 
and  his  nervous  horse  fought  him  constantly  in 
an  effort  to  bolt  from  the  road  and  make  off  to 
the  north.  But,  he  argued,  he  had  suffered  noth- 
ing so  far  from  the  fire;  and  there  was  no  real 
reason  to  be  discouraged. 

Then  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 


M 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        167 

He  rubbed  his  eyes,  as  he  had  done  a  long,  long 
time  before  on  that  same  day.  Five  hundred 
yards  before  him  as  he  looked  down  a  slight 
slope,  a  belt  of  pine  trees  was  burning  high  to 
the  sky.  The  road  ran  straight  through  that. 
Behind  and  beyond  the  belt  of  pines  he  could  see 
the  whole  country  banked  in  terraces  of  flame. 
There  was  no  road.  This  hill  had  divided  the 
wind,  and  thus,  temporarily,  it  had  divided  the 
fire.  Already  the  fire  had  run  away  to  the  north, 
and  it  was  still  moving  northward  as  it  also  ad- 
vanced more  slowly  to  the  top  of  the  hill  where 
he  stood. 

Well,  the  road  was  still  behind  him.  Nothing 
worse  had  happened  than  he  had,  in  reason,  an- 
ticipated. He  must  go  back.  He  turned  the 
horse  and  looked. 

Across  the  ridge  of  the  last  hill  that  he  had 
passed  the  fire  was  marching  majestically.  The 
daylight,  such  as  it  had  been,  had  given  its  place 
to  the  great  glow  of  the  fire.  Ten  minutes  ago 
he  could  not  have  distinguished  anything  back 
there.  Now  he  could  see  the  road  clearly  marked, 
nearly  five  miles  away,  and  across  it  stood  a  solid 
wall  of  fire. 

There  were  no  moments  to  be  lost.  He  was  cut 
off  on  three  sides.  The  way  out  lay  to  the  north, 
over  he  knew  not  what  sort  of  country.  But  at 
least  it  was  a  way  out.  He  must  not  altoijether 
run  away  from  the  fire,  for  in  that  way  he  might 


i 


til, 


flit 

d    SI 


I 


II  !. 

t.'lc 


'I 


i68    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

easily  be  caught  and  hemmed  in  entirely.  He 
must  ride  along  as  near  as  he  could  in  front  of 
It.  So,  if  he  were  fast  enough,  he  might  turn  the 
edge  of  it  and  be  safe  again.  He  might  even 
be  able  to  go  on  his  way  again  to  French  Village. 
Yes,  if  he  were  quick  enough.  Also,  if  the 
fire  played  no  new  trick  upon  him. 

His  horse  turned  willingly  from  the  road  and 
ran  along  under  the  shelter  of  the  ridge  of  the  hill 
for  a  full  mile  as  fast  as  the  Bishop  dared  let 
him  go.  He  could  not  drive.  He  was  obliged 
tu  trust  the  horse  to  pick  his  own  footing.  It 
was  mad  riding  over  rough  pasture  land  and  brush, 
but  r  wa  better  to  let  the  horse  have  his  own 
way. 

Sudde 
whert 
to  go  a. 
stood   stt 
comprehe? 

"I  an 
•'  You  hi 
my  worst. 


V  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  ridge 
Bishop  might  have  expected  to  be  able 
und  the  edge  of  the  fire.  The  horse 
ii  still.  The  Bishop  took  one  quiet, 
r  sive  Ir?fM. 

rry,  loy,"  he  said  gently  to  the  horse, 
c  dor  vour  best.  And  I  —  have  done 
^  .  did  not  deserve  this." 
He  was  looking  down  toward  Wilbur's  Fork, 
a  dry  water  uurse,  two  miles  away  and  a  thou- 
sand feet  below. 

The  fire  had  come  clear  around  the  hill  and 
had  been  driven  down  into  the  heavy  timber  along 
the  water  course.  There  it  was  raging  away  to 
the  west  down  through  the  great  trees,  travelling 


•      H 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        169 

faster  than  any  horse  could  have  been  driven. 

The  Bishop  looked  again.  Then  he  turned  in 
his  saddle,  thinking  mechanically.  To  the  east 
the  fire  was  coming  over  the  ridge  in  an  unbroken 
line  —  death.  From  the  south  it  was  advancing 
slowly  but  with  a  calm  and  certain  steadiness  of 
purpose  —  death.  On  the  hill  to  the  west  it  was 
burning  brightly  and  running  speedily  to  meet  that 
swift  line  of  fire  coming  down  the  northern  side 
of  the  square  —  death.  One  narrowing  avenue 
of  escape  was  for  the  moment  open.  The  lines 
on  the  north  and  the  west  had  not  met.  For  some 
minutes,  a  pitifully  few  minutes,  there  would  be 
a  gap  between  them.  The  horse,  riderless  and 
running  by  the  instinct  of  his  kind  might  make 
that  gap  in  time.  With  a  rider  and  stumbling 
under  weight,  it  was  useless  to  think  of  it. 

With  simple,  characteristic  decision,  the  Bishop 
slid  a  tired  leg  over  the  horse  and  came  heavily 
to  the  ground. 

"  You  have  done  well,  boy,  you  shall  have  your 
chance,"  he  said,  as  he  hurried  to  loosen  the  heavy 
saddle  and  slip  the  bridle. 

He  looked  again.  There  was  no  chance.  The 
square  of  fire  was  closed. 

"We  stay  together,  then."  And  the  Bishop 
mounted  again. 

Within  the  four  walls  of  breathing  death  that 
were  now  closing  around  them  there  was  one 
slender  possibility  of  escape.     It  was  not  a  hope. 


,hi 


li 


i 


p 

.i 

1 

1 

I 

1 

t 


I  ill 


',-i 


a^-i 


170  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

No.  It  was  just  a  futile  little  tassle  on  the  fringe 
of  life.  Still  it  was  to  be  played  with  to  the 
last.  For  that  again  is  the  law,  applying  equally 
to  this  bishop  and  to  the  little  hunted  furry  things 
that  ran  through  the  grass  by  his  horse's  feet. 

One  fire  was  burning  behind  the  other.  There 
was  just  a  possibility  that  a  place  might  be  found 
where  the  first  fire  would  have  burned  away  a 
breathing  place  before  the  other  fire  came  up  to 
it.  It  might  be  possible  to  live  in  that  place  un- 
til the  second  fire,  finding  nothing  to  eat,  should 
die.  It  might  be  possible.  Thinking  of  this,  the 
Bishop  started  slowly  down  the  hill  toward  the 
west. 

Also,  Joseph  Winthrop,  Bishop  of  Alden, 
thought  of  death.  How  should  a  bishop  die? 
He  remembered  Saint  Paul,  on  bishops.  But 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  in  those  passages  that 
bore  on  the  matter  immediately  in  hand. 

Joseph  Winthrop,  a  simple  man,  direct  and  un- 
afraid, guessed  that  he  would  die  very  much  as 
another  man  would  die,  with  his  rosary  in  his 
hand. 

But  was  there  not  a  certain  ignominy  in  being 
trapped  here  as  the  dumb  and  senseless  brute  crea- 
tures were  being  trapped?  For  the  life  of  him, 
the  Bishop  could  no  more  see  ignominy  in  the 
matter  or  the  manner  of  the  thing  than  he  could 
see  heroism. 

He  had  come  out  on  a  bootless  errand,  to  save 


t 


■S: 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        171 

the  lives  of  certain  men,  if  it  might  be.  God  had 
not  seen  wisdom  in  his  plan.  That  was  all.  He 
had  meant  well.     God  meant  better. 

Into  these  quiet  reflections  the  voice  of  a  girl 
broke  insistently  with  a  shrill  hail.  A  horse  some- 
where  neighed  to  his  horse,  and  the  Bishop  real- 
ised  with  a  start  of  horror  that  a  woman  was  here 
in  this  square  of  fire. 

"It's  you,  Bishop,  isn't  it?"  the  voice  cried 
frantically.  "I  thought  I'd  never  find  you. 
Over  here  to  the  right.  Let  your  horse  come. 
He'll  follow  mine.  The  Gaunt  Rocks,"  she 
yelled  back  over  her  shoulder,  "  we  can  make  them 
yet!  There's  nothing  there  to  burn.  We  may 
smother.     But  we  won't  burn!  " 

Thus  the  Bishop  found  himself  and  his  horse 
taken  swiftly  under  command.  It  was  Ruth 
Lansing,  he  recognised,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
think  how  she  had  gotten  into  this  fortress  of 
death.  His  horse  followed  Brom  Bones  through 
a  whirl  of  smoke  and  on  up  a  break-neck  path  of 
loose  stones.  Before  the  Bishop  had  time  to  get 
a  fair  breath  or  any  knowledge  of  where  he  was 
going,  he  found  himself  on  the  top  of  what  seemed 
to  be  a  pile  of  flat,  naked  rocks. 

They  stopped,  and  Ruth  was  already  down  and 
talking  soothingly  to  Brom  Bones  when  the  Bishop 
got  his  feet  to  the  rocks.  Looking  around  he 
saw  that  they  were  on  a  plateau  of  rock  at  least 
several  acres  in  extent  and  perhaps  a  hundred  feet 


I 


i^ 


.1 


I 


I 


ill 


^\ 


I 

r 


! 


!  : 


172    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

above  the  ground  about  them.  Looking  down  he 
saw  the  sea  of  fire  lapping  now  at  the  very  foot 
of  the  rocks  below.  They  had  not  been  an  in- 
stant too  soon.  As  he  turned  to  speak  to  the 
girl,  his  eye  was  caught  by  something  that  ran 
out  of  one  of  the  lines  of  fire.  It  ran  and  fell 
headlong  upon  the  lowest  of  the  rocks.  Then  it 
stirred  and  began  crawling  up  the  rocks. 

It  was  a  man  coming  slowly,  painfully,  on  hands 
and  knees  up  the  side  of  the  refuge.  The  Bishop 
went  down  a  little  to  help.  As  the  two  came 
slowly  to  the  top  of  the  plateau,  Ruth  stood  there 
waiting.  The  Bishop  brought  the  man  to  his  feet 
and  stood  there  holding  him  in  the  light.  The 
face  of  the  newcomer  was  burned  and  swollen  be- 
yond  any  knowing.  But  in  the  tall,  loose-jointed 
figure  Ruth  easily  recognised  Rafe  Gadbeau. 

The  man  swayed  drunkenly  in  the  Bishop's 
arms  for  a  moment,  then  crumpled  down  inert. 
The  Bishop  knelt,  loosening  the  shirt  at  the  neck 
and  holding  the  head  of  what  he  was  quick  to  fear 
was  a  dying  man. 

The  man's  eyes  opened  and  in  the  strong  light 
he  evidently  recognised  the  Bishop's  grimy  collar, 
for  out  of  his  cracked  and  swollen  lips  there  came 

the  moan: 

"  Mon  Pere,  je  me  'ciise  — " 

With  a  start,  Ruth  recognised  the  words. 
They  were  the  form  in  which  the  French  people 


MON  PERE  JE  ME  'CUSE        173 

began  the  telling  of  their  sins  in  confession.  And 
she  hurriedly  turned  away  toward  the  horses. 

She  smiled  wearily  as  she  leaned  against  Brom 
Bones,  thinking  of  Jeffrey  Whiting.  Here  was 
one  of  the  things  that  he  did  not  like  —  the  Cath- 
olic Church  always  turning  up  in  everything. 

She  wondered  where  he  was  and  what  he  was 
doing  and  thinking,  up  there  behind  that  awful 
veil  of  red. 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

lANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    7] 


IIIIM 

IIM 

IIIM 

140 


2.5 
2.2 

2£ 
1.8 


^     APPLIED  IIVMGE 


3J-<    r-ast    Man   Street 


■:tiester.    New    > 


"•8;  -  OJOO  -  Phone 
"';    ^S8  -  5989  -  Fa. 


O'k  '4609         USA 


\l 


f    r*'.*l 


!'!! 


I!  t: 


m 


1 


11 


V, 


h 


I 


VI 


THE   BUSINESS  OF  THE   SHEPHERD 

The  Bishop  laid  the  man's  head  back  so  that 
he  lay  as  easy  as  it  was  possible  and  spoke  a  word 
or  two  in  that  astonishing  French  of  his  which 
was  the  wonder  and  the  peculiar  pride  of  all  the 
North  Country. 

But  for  a  long  time  the  man  seemed  unable  to 
go  farther.  He  saw  the  Bishop  slip  the  little 
pocket  stole  around  his  neck  and  seemed  to  know 
what  it  was  and  what  it  was  for.  The  swollen 
lips,  however,  only  continued  to  mumble  the  words 
with  which  they  had  begun: 

"  Mon  Pere,  je  me  'cuse — " 

Rafe  Gadbeau  could  speak  English  as  well  as  or 
better  than  he  could  speak  French.  But  there 
are  times  when  a  man  reverts  to  the  tongue  of  his 
mother.  And  confession,  especially  in  the  face 
of  death,  is  one  of  these. 

Again  the  Bishop  lowered  the  man's  head  and 
changed  the  position  of  the  body,  while  he  fanned 
what  air  there  was  across  the  gasping  mouth  with 
his  hat. 

Now  the  man  tried  to  gather  his  straying  wits 

174 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     175 


to  him.  With  a  sharp  effort  that  seemed  to  send 
a  tremor  through  his  whole  long  body  he  forced 
his  faculties  back  into  their  grooves.  With  a  mut- 
tered word  of  encouragement  from  the  Bishop, 
he  began  hoarsely  that  precise,  recitative  form  of 
confession  that  the  good  priests  of  Lower  Canada 
have  been  drilling  into  the  children  for  the  last 
three  hundred  years. 

Once  the  memory  found  itself  going  the  long- 
accustomed  way  it  worked  easily,  mechanically. 
Since  five  years  he  had  not  confessed.  At  that 
time  he  had  received  the  Sacrament.  He  went 
through  the  "  table  of  sins  "  with  the  methodical 
care  of  a  man  who  knows  that  if  he  misses  a  step 
in  the  sequence  he  will  lose  his  way.  It  was  the 
story  of  the  young  men  of  his  people  in  the  hills, 
in  the  lumber  camps,  in  the  sawmills,  in  the 
towns.  A  thousand  men  of  his  kind  in  the  hill 
country  would  have  told  the  same  story,  of  hard 
work  and  anger  and  fighting  in  the  camps,  of 
drink  and  debauch  in  the  towns  when  they  went 
down  to  spend  their  money;  and  would  have  told 
it  in  exactly  the  same  way.  The  Bishop  had 
heard  the  story  ten  thousand  times. 

But  now  —  Mon  Pere,  je  me  'cuse  —  there 
was  something  more,  something  that  would  not 
fall  into  the  catalogue  of  the  sins  of  every  day. 
It  had  begun  a  long  time  ago  and  it  was  just  com- 
ing to  an  end  here  at  the  feet  of  the  Bishop. 
Yes,  it  was  undoubtedly  coming  to  an  end.     For 


|i 


i;    :'l 


'  V 


^  \  ' 


t 


■  i  1^' 

■■■I,- 


1 


fm 


.ii 


-M 


iii.l  ! 

H 1 

m 

Mm'} 

i     8 


176    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

the  Bishop  had  found  blood  caked  on  the  man's 
shirt,  in  the  back,  just  below  the  shoulder  blade. 
There  was  a  wound  there,  a  bullet  wound,  a 
wound  from  which  ordinarily  the  man  would  have 
fallen  and  stayed  lying  where  he  fell. 

He  must  tell  this  thing  ir  his  own  way,  back- 
wards, as  it  unrolled  itself  to  his  mind. 

"  I  die,  Mon  Pere,  I  die,"  he  began  between 
gasps.  "  I  die.  Since  the  afternoon  I  have  been 
dying.  If  I  could  have  found  a  spot  to  lie  down, 
if  I  could  have  had  two  minutes  free  from  the 
fire,  I  would  have  lain  down  to  die.  But  shall  a 
man  lie  down  in  hell  before  he  is  dead?     No. 

"  All  day  I  have  run  from  the  fire.  I  could 
not  lie  down  to  die  till  I  had  found  a  free  place 
where  my  soul  could  breathe  out.  Here  I 
breathe.  Here  I  die.  The  rabbits  and  the  foxes 
and  the  deer  ran  out  from  the  fire,  and  they  ran 
no  faster  than  I  ran.  But  I  could  not  run  out  of 
its  way.  All  day  long  men  followed  the  line  of 
the  fire  and  fought  around  its  edge.  They  fought 
the  fire,  but  they  hunted  me.  All  the  day  long 
they  hunted  me  and  drove  me  always  back  into  the 
fire  when  I  would  run  out. 

"  They  hunted  me  because  in  the  early  morn- 
ing they  had  seen  me  with  the  men  who  set  the 
fire.  No.  I  did  not  do  that.  I  did  not  set  hand 
to  the  fire.  Why  was  I  with  those  men?  Why 
did  I  go  with  them  when  they  went  to  set  the  fire  ? 
Ah,  that  is  a  longer  tale. 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     177 

"  Four  years  ago  I  was  in  Utica.  It  was  In 
a  drinking  place.  All  were  drinking.  There  was 
a  fight.  A  man  was  killed.  I  struck  no  blow. 
Mon  Pere,  I  struck  no  blow.  But  my  knife  — 
my  knife  was  found  in  the  man's  heart.  Who 
struck?  I  know  not.  A  detective  for  this  rail- 
road that  comes  now  into  the  hills  found  my  knife. 
He  traced  it  to  me.  He  showed  the  knife  to  me. 
It  was  mine.  I  could  not  deny.  But  he  said  no 
word  to  the  law.  With  the  knife  he  could  hang 
me.  But  he  said  no  word.  Only  to  me  he  said, 
'  Some  day  I  may  need  you.' 

"  Last  winter  that  man  the  detective  came  into 
the  hills.  Now  he  was  not  a  detective.  He  was 
Rogers.  He  was  the  agent  for  the  railroad.  He 
would  buy  the  land  from  the  people. 

"  The  people  would  not  sell.  You  know  of 
the  matter.  In  June  he  came  again.  He  was 
angry,  because  other  men  above  him  were  angry. 
He  must  force  the  people  to  sell.  He  must  trick 
the  people.  He  saw  me.  'You,'  he  said,  'I 
need  you.' 

"Mon  Pere,  that  man  owned  me.  On  the 
point  of  my  knife,  like  a  pinch  of  salt,  he  held  my 
life.  Never  a  moment  when  I  could  say,  I  will 
do  this,  I  will  do  that.  Always  I  must  do  his 
bidding.  For  him  I  lied  to  my  own  people.  For 
him  I  tricked  my  friends.  For  him  I  nearly  killed 
the  young  Whiting.  Always  I  must  do  as  he  told. 
He  called  and  I  came.     He  bade  me  do  and  I  did. 


^'  11 


■ .  ''  ]\ 


i!     I 
I    \ 

r 


i^  1 


1 


Ml; 


i 


Li 


a 

h  1 

1; 

f. 

178     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  M'sieur  does  not  know  the  sin  of  hate.  It 
is  the  wild  beast  of  all  sins.  And  fear,  too,  that 
is  the  father  of  sin.  For  fear  begets  hate.  And 
hate  goes  raging  to  do  all  sin. 

"  So,  after  fear,  came  hate  into  my  heart.  Be- 
fore my  eyes  was  always  the  face  of  this  man, 
threatening  with  that  knife  of  mine. 

'*  Yesterday,  in  the  morning  came  a  message 
that  I  must  meet  him  at  the  railroad.  He  would 
come  to  the  end  of  the  rail  and  we  would  go  up 
into  the  high  hills.  I  knew  what  was  to  be  done. 
To  myself,  I  rebelled.  I  would  not  go.  I  swore 
I  would  not  go.  A  girl,  a  good  girl  that  loved  me, 
begged  me  not  to  go.  To  her  I  swore  I  would 
not  go. 

"  I  went.  Fear,  Mon  Pere,  fear  is  the  father 
of  all.  I  went  because  there  was  that  knife  be- 
fore my  eyes.  I  believe  that  good  girl  followed 
into  the  high  hills,  hoping,  maybe,  to  bring  me 
back  at  the  last  moment.     I  do  not  know. 

"  I  went  because  I  must  go.  I  must  be  there 
in  case  any  one  should  see.  If  any  of  us  that  went 
was  to  be  caught,  I  was  to  be  caught.  I  must  be 
seen.  I  must  be  known  to  have  been  there.  If 
any  one  was  to  be  punished,  I  was  that  one. 
Rogers  must  be  free,  do  you  see.  I  would  have 
to  take  the  blame.  I  would  not  dare  to 
speak. 

"  Through  the  night  we  skulked  by  Bald  Moun- 
tain.    We  were  seven.     And  of  the  seven  I  alone 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     179 


was  to  take  the  blame.  They  would  swear  it  upon 
me.     I  knew. 

"  Never  once  did  Rogers  let  me  get  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  tongue.  And  his  speech  was,  '  You 
owe  me  this.     Now  you  must  pay.' 

"  In  the  first  light  the  torches  were  got  ready. 
We  scattered  along  the  fringe  of  the  highest  trees. 
Rogers  kept  me  with  him.  A  moment  he  went 
out  into  the  clearing.  Then  he  came  running 
back.  He  had  seen  other  men  watching  for  us. 
I  ran  a  little  way.  He  came  running  behind  with 
a  lighted  torch,  setting  fire  as  he  ran.  He  yelled 
to  me  to  light  my  torch.  Again  I  ran,  deeper 
into  the  wood.  Again  he  came  after  me,  the  red 
flare  of  the  fire  running  after  him. 

"  Mon  Dieu  I  The  red  flare  of  the  fire  in  the 
wood!  The  red  rush  of  fire  in  the  air !  The  red 
flame  of  fire  in  my  heart!  Fear!  Hate! 
Fire !  "  With  a  terrible  convulsion  the  man  drew 
himself  up  in  the  Bishop's  arms,  gazing  wildly  at 
the  fire  all  about  them,  and  screaming: 

"  On  my  knee  I  dropped  and  shot  him,  shot 
Rogers  when  he  stopped !  " 

He  fell  back  as  the  scream  died  in  his  throat. 

The  Bishop  began  the  words  of  the  Absolution. 
Some  whisper  of  the  well-remembered  sound  must 
have  reached  down  to  the  soul  of  Rafe  Gadbeau 
in  its  dark  place,  for,  as  though  unconsciously, 
his  lips  began  to  form  the  words  of  the  Act  of 
Contrition. 


li 


J.: 


I  ill 


I  i 


i8o    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


r  I 


i  ( 


if  I 


n 


if  J 


li'M'M 


.  r 


y  r  ' 


:iiJ. 


! 


As  the  Bishop  finished,  the  tremor  of  death  ran 
through  the  body  in  his  arms.  He  knelt  there 
holding  the  empty  shell  of  a  man. 

Ruth  Lansing,  standing  a  little  distance  away, 
resting  against  the  flank  of  her  horse,  had  time  to 
be  awed  and  subdued  by  the  terrific  forces  of  this 
world  and  the  other  that  were  at  work  about  her. 
This  world,  with  the  exception  of  this  little  island 
on  which  she  stood,  was  on  fire.  The  wind  had 
almost  entirely  died  out.  On  every  side  the  flames 
rose  evenly  to  the  very  heavens.  Direction,  dis- 
tance, place,  all  were  blotted  out.  There  was  no 
east,  no  west;  no  north,  no  south.  Only  an  im- 
penetrable ring  of  fire,  no  earth,  no  sky.  Only 
these  few  bare  rocks  and  this  inverted  bowl  of 
lurid,  hot,  cinder-laden  air  out  of  which  she  must 
get  the  breath  of  life. 

Into  this  ring  of  fire  a  hunted  man  had  burst, 
just  as  she  had  seen  a  rabbit  and  a  belated  wood- 
chuck  bursting.  And  that  man  had  lain  himself 
down  to  die.  And  here,  of  all  places,  he  had 
found  the  hand  of  the  mighty,  the  omnipresent 
Catholic  Church  reached  out  ready  to  him ! 

She  was  only  a  young  girl.  But  since  that  night 
when  the  Bishop  had  come  to  her  as  she  held  her 
father  dying  in  her  arms  she  had  thought  much. 
Thought  had  been  pressed  upon  her.  Forces  had 
pressed  themselves  in  upon  her  mind.  The  things 
that  she  had  been  hearing  and  reading  since  her 
childhood,   the   thoughts   of   the   people   among 


T! 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     i8i 

whom  she  had  grown  up,  the  feeling  of  loyalty  to 
her  own  kind,  all  these  had  fought  in  her  against 
the  dominion  of  the  Catholic  Church  which  chal- 
lenged them  all. 

Because  she  had  so  recently  come  under  its  in- 
fluence, the  Catholic  Church  seemed  ever  to  be  un- 
folding new  wonders  to  her.  It  seemed  as  though 
she  stepped  ever  from  one  holy  of  holies  into  an- 
other more  wonderful,  more  awesome.  Yet  al- 
ways there  seeme.i  to  be  something  just  beyond, 
some  deeper,  more  mysterious  meaning  to  which 
she  could  not  quite  attain.  Always  a  door  opened, 
only  to  disclose  another  closed  door  beyond  it. 

Here  surely  she  stood  as  near  to  naked  truth 
as  it  was  possible  to  get.  Here  were  none  of  the 
forms  of  words,  none  of  the  explanations,  none 
of  the  ready-made  answers  of  the  catechism. 
Here  were  just  two  men.  One  was  a  bad  man, 
a  man  of  evil  life.  He  was  dying.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments his  soul  must  go  —  somewhere.  The  other 
was  a  good  man.  To-day  he  had  risked  his  life 
to  save  the  lives  of  this  man  and  others  —  for 
Ruth  was  quick  to  suspect  that  Gadbeau  had  been 
caught  in  the  fire  because  other  men  were  chasing 
him. 

Now  these  two  men  had  a  question  to  settle  be- 
tween them.  In  a  very  few  minutes  these  two 
men  must  settle  whether  this  bad  man's  soul  was 
presently  going  to  Hell  or  to  Heaven  for  all  eter- 
nity.    You    see,    she   was   a   very   direct   young 


H  ' 


'.-J. 


h 


I'll 

H 


If 


f 


1 1 


t 

11 

Si>, 

182    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

person.     She    took    her    religion    at    Its    word, 
straight  in  the  eyes,  literally. 

So  far  she  had  not  needed  to  take  any  precau- 
tions against  hearing  anything  that  was  said.  The 
dull  roar  of  the  fire  all  about  them  effectually 
silenced  every  other  sound.  Then,  without  warn- 
ing, high  above  the  noise  of  the  fire,  came  the 
shrill,  breaking  voice  of  Gadbeau,  screaming: 

"  On  my  knee  I  dropped  and  shot  him,  shot 
Rogers  as  he  stopped  I  " 

Involuntarily  she  turned  and  started  towards 
the  men.  Gadbeau  had  fallen  back  in  the 
Bishop's  arms  and  the  Bishop  was  leaning  over, 
apparently  talking  to  him.  She  knew  that  she 
must  not  go  near  until  the  Bishop  gave  her  leave. 
She  turned  back  and  putting  her  hands  up  to  her 
ears  buried  her  face  in  Brom  Bones'  mane. 

But  she  could  not  put  away  the  words  that  she 
had  heard.  Never,  so  long  as  she  lived,  was  she 
able  to  forget  them.  Like  the  flash  of  the  shot 
itself,  they  leaped  to  her  brain  and  seared  them- 
selves there.  Years  afterwards  she  could  shut 
her  eyes  and  fairly  see  those  words  burning  in  her 
mind. 

When  it  was  ended,  the  Bishop  called  to  her  and 
she  went  over  timidly.     She  heard  the  Bishop  say : 

"  He  is  gone.     Will  you  say  a  prayer,  Ruth?  " 

Then  the  Bishop  began  to  read  slowly,  in  the 
light  of  the  flames,  the  Prayers  for  the  Departed. 
Ruth  kneeling  drew  forth  her  beads  and  among 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     183 


the  Mysteries  she  wept  gently  —  why,  she  knew 
not. 

When  the  Bishop  had  finished,  he  knelt  a  while 
in  silence,  looking  into  the  face  of  the  dead. 
Then  he  arose  and  folded  the  long  arms  on  the 
tattered  breast  and  straightened  the  body. 

Ruth  rose  and  watched  him  in  a  troubled  way. 
Once,  twice  she  opened  her  lips  to  speak.  But 
she  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  say  it. 
Finally  she  began : 

"  Bishop,  I  --  I  heard  — " 

"  No,  child.  You  heard  nothing,"  the  Bishop 
interrupted  quietly,  "  nothing." 

Ruth  understood.  And  for  a  little  space  the 
two  stood  there  looking  down.  The  dead  man's 
secret  lay  between  them,  buried  under  God's  awful 
seal. 

The  Bishop  went  to  his  horse  and  unstrapping 
Father  Brady's  storm  coat  which  he  had  brought 
wrapped  it  gently  over  the  head  and  body  of  the 
dead  man  as  a  protection  from  the  showers  of 
glowing  cinders  that  rained  down  upon  every- 
thing. 

Then  they  took  up  the  interminable  vigil  of  the 
night,  standing  at  their  horses'  heads,  their  faces 
buried  in  the  manes,  their  arms  thrown  over  the 
horses'  eyes. 

As  the  night  wore  on  the  fire,  having  consumed 
everything  to  the  east  and  south,  moved  on  delib- 
erately into  the  west  and  north.     But  the  sharp, 


'1      "■ 


i-l 


l!i 


I"  ff 


!     W 


t^'.' It'll 


184     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

acrid  smoke  of  trees  left  smouldering  behind  still 
kept  them  in  exquisite,  blinded  torture. 

The  murky,  grey  pall  of  the  night  turned  almost 
to  black  as  the  fires  to  the  east  died  almost  out  in 
that  last,  lifeless  hour  of  the  night.  The  light 
of  the  morning  showed  a  faint,  sickly  white 
through  the  smoke  banks  on  the  high  hills.  When 
it  was  time  for  the  sun  to  be  rising  over  Bald 
Mountain,  the  morning  breezes  came  down  lifting 
the  heavy  clouds  of  smoke  and  carrying  them  over- 
head and  away  into  the  west.  They  saw  the 
world  again,  a  grey,  ash-strewn  world,  with  not  a 
land-mark  left  but  the  bare  knobs  of  the  hills  and 
here  and  there  a  great  tree  still  standing  smoking 
like  a  burnt-out  torch. 

They  mounted  wearily,  and  taking  a  last  look  at 
the  figure  of  the  man  lying  there  on  his  rocky 
bier,  picked  their  way  down  to  the  sloping  hill- 
side. The  Gaunt  Rocks  had  saved  their  lives. 
Now  they  must  reach  Little  Tupper  and  water  if 
they  would  have  their  horses  live.  Intolerable, 
frightful  thirst  was  already  swelling  their  own 
lips  and  they  knew  that  the  plight  of  the  horses 
was  inevitably  worse. 

Ruth  took  the  lead,  for  she  knew  the  country. 
They  must  travel  circuitously,  avoiding  the  places 
that  had  been  wooded  for  the  fallen  trees  would 
still  be  burning  and  would  block  them  every- 
where. The  road  was  impossible  because  it  had 
largely  run  through  wooded  places  and  the  trees 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     185 

would  have  /alien  across  it.  Their  situation  was 
not  desperate,  but  at  any  moment  a  horse  miglit 
drop  or  turn  mad  for  water. 

For  two  hours  they  plodded  steadily  over  the 
hills  through  the  hot,  loose-lying  ashes.  In  all  the 
world  it  seemed  that  not  man  nor  beast  nor  bird 
was  alive.  The  top  of  the  earth  was  one  grey 
ruin,  draped  with  the  little  sworls  of  dust  and 
ashes  that  the  playful  wind  sent  drifting  up  into 
their  mouths  and  eyes. 

They  dared  not  ride  faster  than  a  walk,  for  the 
ashes  had  blown  level  over  holes  and  traps  of  all 
sorts  in  which  a  galloping  horse  would  surely  break 
his  leg.  Nor  would  it  have  been  safe  to  put  the 
horses  to  any  rapid  expenditure  of  energy.  The 
little  that  was  left  in  them  must  be  doled  out  to  the 
very  last  ounce.  For  they  did  not  yet  know  what 
lay  between  them  and  French  Village  and  the  lake. 
If  the  fire  had  not  reached  the  lake  during  the 
night  then  it  was  always  a  possibility  that,  with 
this  fresh  morning  wind,  a  new  fire  might  spring 
up  from  the  ashes  of  the  old  and  place  an  impas- 
sable barrier  between  them  and  the  water. 

When  this  thought  came  to  them,  as  it  must, 
they  involuntarily  quickened  their  pace.  The  im- 
pulse was  to  make  one  wild  dash  for  the  lake. 
But  they  knew  that  it  would  be  nothing  short  of 
madness.  They  must  go  slowly  and  carefully,  en- 
during the  torture  with  what  fortitude  they  could. 

The  story  which  the  Bishop  had  heard  from  the 


t 


,.•!   I 


■  a  i 


ill     !  -.i 


i  I 


md 


^  I 
i  I 


1 86     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

lips  of  the  dying  man  had  stirred  him  profoundly. 
He  now  knew  definitely,  what  yesterday  he  had 
suspected,  that  men  had  been  sent  into  the  hills 
by  the  railroad  people  to  set  fire  to  the  forests, 
thereby  driving  the  people  out  of  that  part  of  the 
country  which  the  railroad  wished  to  possess.     He 
was  moved  to  anger  by  the  knowledge,  but  he 
knew  that  he  must  try  to  dr^ve  that  knowledge 
back  into  the  deepest  recess  of  his  mind;  must  try 
to  hide  it  even  from  himself,  lest  in  some  un- 
guarded moment,  some  time  of  stress  and  mental 
conflict,  he  should  by  word  or  \  ok,  by  a  gesture 
or  even  by  an  omission,   reveal  even  his   con- 
sciousness of  that  knowledge.     Now  he  knew  that 
the  situation  which  last  night  he  had  thought  to 
meet  in  French  Village  would  almost  certainly 
confront  him  there  this  morning,  if  indeed  he  ever 
succeeded  in  reaching  there.     And  he  must  be 
doubly  on  his  guard  lest  the  things  which  he  might 
learn  to-day  should  in  his  mind  confuse  themselves 
with  what  he  had  last  night  learned  under  the  seal 
of  the  confessional. 

Through  all  the  night  Ruth  Lansing  had  been 
hearing  the  words  of  that  last  cry  of  the  dying 
man.  She  did  not  know  how  near  they  came  to 
her.  She  did  not  know  that  Jeffrey  Whiting  had 
stood  with  his  gun  levelled  upon  the  man  whom 
Gadbeau  had  killed.  But,  try  as  she  would  to 
keep  back  the  knowledge  which  she  knew  she  must 
never  under  any  circumstances  reveal,  those  words 


II I 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     187 

came  ringing  upon  her  ears.     And  she  knew  that 
the  secret  would  haunt  her  and  taunt  her  always. 

As  they  came  over  the  last  of  the  ridges,  the 
grey  waste  of  the  country  sloping  from  all  sides  to 
the  lake  lay  open  before  them.  There  was  not  a 
ruin,  not  a  standing  stick  to  show  them  where 
little  French  Village  had  once  stood  along  the 
lake.  The  fire  had  gone  completely  around  the 
lake  to  the  very  water  edge  and  a  back  draught 
had  drawn  it  up  in  a  circle  around  the  east  slope. 
There  it  had  burned  itself  out  along  the  forest 
line  of  the  higher  hills.  It  had  gone  on  toward 
the  west,  burning  its  way  down  to  the  settled  farm 
lands.  But  there  would  be  no  more  fire  in  this 
region. 

"  Would  the  people  make  their  way  down  the 
river,"  the  Bishop  asked;  "  or  did  they  escape  back 
into  the  higher  hills?  " 

"  I  don't  think  they  did  either,"  Ruth  answered 
as  she  scanned  the  lake  sharply.  *'  There  is  some- 
thing out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  lake,  and  1 
wouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  made  rafts  out  of  the 
logs  and  went  through  the  fire  that  way.  They'd 
be  better  off  than  we  were,  and  that  way  they 
could  save  some  things.  If  they  had  run  away 
they  would  have  had  to  drop  everything." 

The  horses,  sniffing  the  moist  air  from  the  lake, 
pricked  up  their  ears  and  started  briskly  down  the 
slope.  It  was  soon  plain  that  Ruth  was  right  in 
her  conjecture.     They  could  now  make  out  five 


i 


i  "i 


fl. 


»r  ' 


J  t'  U 


!ili 


'i'  ;!■  lit 


i ' .  >^ 


m 

km 


■  t 

■  J 


,  i  It  ,      I 


J    I 

ji 

!  I 

t  I 

!      f 


i88     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

or  six  large  rafts  which  the  people  had  evidently 
thrown  together  out  of  the  logs  that  had  been 
lying  in  the  lake  awaiting  their  turn  at  the  saw- 
mill. These  were  crowded  with  people,  stand- 
ing as  they  must  have  stood  all  through  the  night ; 
and  now  the  freshening  wind,  aided  by  such  help 
as  the  people  could  give  it  with  boards  and  poles, 
was  moving  all  slowly  toward  the  shore  where 
their  homes  had  been. 

The  heart  of  the  Shepherd  was  very  low  as  he 
rode  fetlock  deep  through  the  ashes  of  what  had 
been  the  street  of  a  happy  little  village  and 
watched  his  people  coming  sadly  back  to  land. 
There  was  nothing  for  them  to  come  back  to. 
They  might  as  well  have  gone  to  the  other  side 
of  the  lake  to  begin  life  again.  But  they  would 
inevitably,  with  that  dumb  loyalty  to  places,  which 
people  share  with  birds,  come  back  and  begin 
their  nests  over  again. 

For  nearly  an  hour  they  stood  on  the  little 
beach,  letting  the  horses  drink  a  little  now  and 
then,  and  watching  the  approach  of  the  rafts. 
When  they  came  to  the  shallow  water,  men  and 
boys  jumped  yelling  from  the  rafts  and  came  wad- 
ing ashore.  In  a  few  moments  the  rafts  were 
emptied  of  all  except  the  very  aged  or  the  crippled 
who  must  be  carried  off. 

They  crowded  around  the  grimy,  unrecognis- 
able Bishop  and  the  girl  with  wonder  and  a  little 
superstition,  for  it  was  plain  that  these  two  people 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     189 


must  have  come  straight  through  the  fire.  But 
when  Father  Ponfret  came  running  forward  and 
knelt  at  the  Bishop's  feet,  a  great  glad  cry  of 
wondering  recognition  went  up  from  all  the  French 
people.  It  was  their  Bishop!  He  who  spoke 
the  French  of  the  most  astonishing  I  His  coming 
was  a  sign!  A  deliverance!  They  had  come 
through  horrors.  Now  all  was  well !  The  good 
God  had  hidden  His  face  through  the  long  night. 
Now,  in  the  morning  He  had  sent  His  messenger 
to  say  that  all  was  well ! 

Laughing  and  crying  in  the  quick  surcharge  of 
spirits  that  makes  their  race  what  it  is,  they  threw 
themselves  on  their  knees  begging  his  blessing. 
The  Bishop  bared  his  head  and  raised  his  hand 
slowly.  He  was  infinitely  humbled  by  the  quick, 
spontaneous  outburst  of  their  faith.  He  had  done 
nothing  for  them;  could  do  nothing  for  them. 
They  were  homeless,  pitiable,  without  a  hope  or  a 
stick  of  shelter.  Yet  it  had  needed  but  the  sight 
of  his  face  to  bring  out  their  cheery  unbounded 
confidence  that  God  was  good,  that  the  world  was 
right  again. 

The  other  people,  the  hill  people  of  the  Bishop's 
own  blood  and  race,  stood  apart.  They  did  not 
understand  the  scene.  They  were  not  a  kind  of 
people  that  could  weep  and  laugh  at  once.  But 
they  were  not  unmoved.  For  years  they  had 
heard  of  the  White  Horse  Chaplain.  Some  two 
or  three  old  men  of  them  saw  him  now  through 


1. 


Hi 


f  ftf. ^ff' 


i 


ilHf^ 


:'\ 


mi 


1.  t  f 


■  i 


f 


190  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

a  mist  of  memory  and  battle  smoke  riding  a  mad 
horse  across  a  field.  They  knew  that  this  was  the 
man.  That  he  should  appear  out  of  the  fire  after 
the  nightmare  through  which  they  had  passed  was 
not  so  much  incredible  as  it  was  a  part  of  the 
strange  things  that  they  had  always  half  believed 
about  him. 

Then  rose  the  swift,  shrill  cackle  of  tongues 
around  the  Bishop.  Father  Ponfret,  a  quick, 
eager  little  man  of  his  people,  would  drag  the 
Bishop's  story  from  him  by  very  force.  Had  he 
dropped  from  Heaven  ?  How  had  he  come  to  be 
in  the  hills?  Had  a  miracle  saved  him  from  the 
fire? 

The  Bishop  told  the  tale  simply,  accenting  the 
folly  of  his  own  imprudence,  and  how  he  had  been 
saved  from  the  consequences  of  it  by  the  quick- 
ness and  wisdom  of  the  young  girl.  Father  Pon- 
fret translated  freely  and  with  a  fine  flourish. 
Then  the  Bishop  told  of  the  coming  of  Rafe  Gad- 
beau  and  how  the  man  had  died  with  the  Sacra- 
ment. They  nodded  their  heads  in  silence. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  They  knew  who 
the  man  was.  He  had  done  wickedly.  But  the 
good  God  had  stretched  out  the  wing  of  His  great 
Church  over  him  at  the  last.  Why  say  more? 
God  was  good.     No? 

Ruth  Lansing  went  among  her  own  hill  people, 
grouped  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  that  pressed 
around  the  Bishop,  answering  their  eager  questions 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     191 


and  asking  questions  of  her  own.  There  was  just 
one  question  that  she  wanted  to  ask,  but  something 
kept  it  back  from  her  lips.  There  was  no  reason 
at  all  why  she  should  not  ask  them  about  Jeffrey 
Whiting.  Some  of  them  must  at  least  have  heard 
news  of  him,  must  know  in  what  direction  he  had 
gone  to  fight  the  fire.  But  some  unnamed  dread 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  her  so  that  she  dared 
not  put  her  crying  question  into  words. 

Some  ont  at  her  elbow,  who  had  heard  what 
the  French  people  were  saying,  asked : 

"  You're  sure  that  was  Gadbeau  that  crawled 
out  of  the  fire  and  died.  Miss  Lansing?  " 

"  Yes.  I  knew  him  well,  of  course.  It  was 
Gadbeau,  certainly,"  Ruth  answered  without  look- 
ing up. 

Then  a  tall  young  fellow  in  front  of  her  said: 

"  Then  that's  two  of  'em  done  for.  That  was 
Gadbeau.     And  Jeff  Whiting  shot  Rogers." 

"  He  did  not!  "  Ruth  blazed  up  in  the  young 
man's  face.  Jeffrey  Whiting  did  not  shoot  Rog- 
ers!    Rafe  — !" 

The  horror  of  the  thing  she  had  been  about  to 
Jo  rushed  upon  her  and  blinded  her.  The  blood 
came  rushing  up  into  her  throat  and  brain,  choking 
her,  stunning  her,  so  that  she  gasped  and  stag- 
gered. The  young  man,  Perry  Waite,  caught  her 
by  the  arm  as  she  seemed  about  to  fall.  She 
struggled  a  moment  for  control  of  herself,  then 
managed  to  gasp: 


4 


192  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


mr 


-■I- 


"•  'f 


it     i 


"  It's  nothing  —     Let  me  go." 

Perry  Waite  looked  sharply  into  her  face. 
Then  he  took  his  hand  from  her  arm. 

Trembling  and  horror-stricken,  Ruth  slipped 
away  and  crowded  herself  in  among  the  people 
who  stood  around  the  Bishop.  Here  no  one 
would  be  likely  to  speak  to  her.  And  here,  too, 
she  felt  a  certain  relief,  a  sense  of  security,  in  be- 
ing surrounded  by  people  who  would  understand. 
Even  though  they  knew  nothing  of  her  secret,  yet 
the  mere  feeling  that  she  stood  among  those  who 
could  have  understood  gave  her  strength  and  a 
feeling  of  safety  even  against  herself  which  she 
could  not  have  had  among  her  own  kind. 

But  she  was  not  long  left  with  her  feeling  of 
security.  A  wan,  grey-faced  girl  with  burning 
eyes  caught  Ruth  fiercely  by  the  arm  and  drew  her 
out  of  the  crowd.  It  was  Cynthe  Cardinal, 
though  Ruth  found  it  difficult  to  recognise  in  her 
the  red-cheeked,  sprightly  French  girl  she  had  met 
in  the  early  summer. 

"  You  saw  Rafe  Gadbeau  die,"  the  girl  said 
roughly,  as  she  faced  Ruth  sharply  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  crowd.  "  You  were  there,  close? 
No?" 

"  Yes,  the  fire  was  all  around,"  Ruth  answered, 
quaking. 

"How  did  he  die?     Tell  me.     How?" 
"Why  —  why,  he  died  quickly,  in  the  Bishop's 
arms." 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     193 

"  I  know.  Yes.  But  how  ?  He  confessed?  " 
*  He  —  he  went  to  confession,  you  mean. 
Yes,  I  think  so." 

But  the  girl  was  not  to  be  evaded  in  that  way. 

"I  know  that,"  she  persisted.  "I  heard 
M'sieur  the  Bishop.  But  did  he  confess  —  about 
Rogers?  " 

"  Why,  Cynthe,  you  must  be  crazy.  You  know 
I  didn't  hear  anything.     I  couldn't  — " 

"He  didn't  say  nothing,  except  in  confes- 
sion?" the  girl  questioned  swiftly. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  Ruth  answered,  relieved. 

"  And  you  heard?  "  the  girl  returned  shrewdly. 

"  Why,  Cynthe,  I  heard  nothing.  You  know 
that." 

"  I  know  you  are  lying,"  Cynthe  said  slowly. 
"  That  is  right.  But  I  do  not  know.  Will  you 
always  be  able  to  lie  ?  I  do  not  know.  You  are 
Catholic,  yes.  But  you  are  new.  You  are  not 
like  one  of  us.  Sometime  you  will  forget.  It  is 
not  bred  in  the  bone  of  you  as  it  is  bred  in  us. 
Sometime  when  you  are  not  thinking  some  one  will 
ask  you  a  question  and  you  will  start  and  your 
tongue  will  slip,  or  you  will  be  silent  —  and  that 
will  be  just  as  bad." 

Ruth  stood  looking  down  at  the  ground.  She 
dared  not  speak,  did  not  even  raise  her  eyes,  for 
any  assurance  of  silence  or  even  a  reassuring  look 
to  the  girl  would  be  an  admission  that  she  must  not 
make. 


I  i 


i  ^ 

I      1 

m 


I,  J' 


!r   f 


■t  n 


r  n 


;»  ,  If 


i  ■ 


194    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  Swear  it  in  your  heart !  Swear  that  you  did 
not  hear  a  word !  You  cannot  speak  to  me.  But 
swear  it  to  your  soul,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low,  tense 
whisper;  "  swear  that  you  vIU  never,  sleeping  or 
waking,  laughing  or  crying,  in  joy  or  in  sorrow,  let 
woman  or  man  know  that  you  heard.  Swear  it. 
And  while  you  swear,  remember."  She  drew 
Ruth  close  to  her  and  almost  hissed  into  her  ear: 

"Remember —     You  love  Jeffrey  Whiting!" 

She  dropped  Ruth's  arm  and  turned  quickly 
away. 

Ruth  stood  there  trembling  weakly,  her  mind 
lost  in  a  whirl  of  fright  and  bewilderment.  She 
did  not  know  where  to  turn.  She  could  not  grap- 
ple with  the  racing  thoughts  that  went  hurtling 
through  her  mind. 

This  girl  had  loved  Rafe  Gadbeau.  She  was 
half  crazed  with  her  love  and  her  grief.  And  she 
was  determined  to  protect  his  name  from  the  dark 
blot  of  murder.  With  the  uncanny  insight  that  is 
sometimes  given  to  those  beside  themselves  with 
some  great  grief  or  strain,  the  girl  had  seen  Ruth's 
terrible  secret  bare  in  its  hiding  place  and  had 
plucked  it  out  before  Ruth's  very  eyes. 

The  awful,  the  unbelievable  thing  had  hap- 
pened, thought  Ruth.  She  had  broken  the  seal  of 
the  confessional!  She  had  been  entrusted  with 
the  most  terrible  secret  that  a  man  could  have  to 
tell,  under  the  most  awful  bond  that  God  could  put 
upon  a  secret.     And  the  secret  had  escaped  her! 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     195 

She  had  said  no  word  at  all.  But,  just  as  surely 
as  if  she  had  repeated  the  cry  of  the  dying  man  In 
the  night,  Ruth  knew  that  the  other  girl  had  taken 
her  secret  from  her. 

And  with  that  same  uncanny  insight,  too,  the 
girl  had  looked  into  the  future  and  had  shown 
Ruth  what  a  burden  the  secret  was  to  be  to  her. 
Nay,  what  a  burden  it  was  already  becoming. 
For  already  she  was  afraid  to  speak  to  any  one, 
afraid  to  go  near  any  person  that  she  had  ever 
known. 

And  that  girl  had  stripped  bare  another  of 
Ruth's  secrets,  one  that  had  been  hidden  even 
from  herself.     She  had  said : 

"  Remember —     You  love  Jeffrey  Whiting." 

In  ways,  she  had  always  loved  him.  But  she 
now  realised  that  she  had  never  known  what  love 
was.  Now  she  knew.  She  had  seen  it  flame  up 
in  the  eyes  of  the  half  mad  French  girl,  ready  to 
clutch  and  tear  for  the  dead  name  of  the  man 
whom  she  had  loved.  Now  Ruth  knew  what  it 
was,  and  it  came  burning  up  in  her  heart  to  protect 
the  dear  name  of  her  own  beloved  one,  her  man. 
Already  men  were  putting  the  brand  of  Cain  upon 
him !  Already  the  word  was  running  from  mouth 
to  mouth  over  the  hills  —  The  word  of  blood ! 
And  with  it  ran  the  name  of  her  lovel  Jeffrey, 
the  boy  she  had  loved  since  always,  the  man  she 
would  love  forever! 

He  would  hear  it  from  other  mouths.     But, 


196  THE  SHEPHKRD  OF  THE  NORTH 

oh !  the  cruel,  unbearable  taunt  was  that  only  two 
days  ago  he  had  heard  it  first  from  her  own  lips! 
Why?  Why?  How?  How  had  she  ever  said 
such  a  thing?     Ever  thought  of  such  a  thing? 

But  she  could  not  speak  as  the  French  girl  had 
spoken  for  her  man.  She  could  not  swear  the 
mouths  to  silence.  She  could  not  cry  out  the 
bursting,  torturing  truth  that  alone  would  close 
those  mouths.  No,  not  even  to  Jeffrey  himself 
could  she  ever  by  word,  or  even  by  the  faintest 
whisper,  or  even  by  a  look,  show  that  she  knew 
more  than  his  and  other  living  mouths  could  tell 
her!  Never  would  she  be  able  to  look  into  his 
eyes  and  say: 

I  know  you  did  not  do  it. 

Only  in  her  most  secret  heart  of  hearts  could 
she  be  glad  that  she  knew.  And  even  that  knowl- 
edge was  the  sacred  property  of  the  dead  man. 
It  was  not  hers.  She  must  try  to  keep  it  out  of 
her  mind.  Love,  horror,  and  the  awful  weight  of 
God's  seal  pressed  in  upon  her  to  crush  her. 
There  was  no  way  to  turn,  no  step  to  take.  She 
could  not  meet  them,  could  not  cope  with  them. 

Stumbling  blindly,  she  crept  out  of  the  crowd 
and  down  to  where  Brom  Bones  stood  by  the  lake. 
There  the  kindly  French  women  found  her,  her 
face  buried  in  the  colt's  mane,  crying  hysterically. 
They  bathed  her  hands  and  face  and  soothed  her, 
and  when  she  was  a  little  quieted  they  gave  her 
drink  and  food.     And  Ruth,  reviving,  and  know- 


|T 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     197 

ing  that  she  would  need  strength  above  all  things, 
took  what  was  given  and  silently  faced  the  galling 
weight  of  the  burden  that  was  hers. 

The  Bishop  had  taken  quick  charge  of  the  whole 
situation.  The  first  thing  to  be  decided  was 
whether  the  people  should  try  to  hold  out  where 
they  were  or  should  attempt  at  once  to  walk  out 
to  the  villages  on  the  north  or  west.  To  the  west 
it  would  mean  forty  miles  of  walking  over  ashes 
with  hardly  any  way  of  carrying  water.  To  the 
north  it  would  mean  a  longer  walk,  but  they  could 
follow  the  river  and  have  water  at  hand.  The 
danger  in  that  direction  was  that  they  might  come 
into  the  path  of  a  new  fire  that  would  cut  them 
off  from  all  help. 

Even  if  they  did  come  out  &  e  to  the  villages, 
what  would  they  do  there  ?  They  would  be  scat- 
tered, penniless,  homeless.  There  was  nothing 
left  for  them  here  but  the  places  where  their 
homes  had  been,  but  at  least  they  would  be  to- 
gether. The  cataclysm  through  which  they  had 
all  passed,  which  had  brought  the  prosperous  and 
the  poverty-stricken  alike  to  the  common  level  of 
just  a  few  meals  away  from  starvation,  would  here 
bind  them  together  and  give  them  a  common 
strength  for  a  new  grip  on  life.  If  there  was 
food  enough  to  carry  them  over  the  four  or  five 
days  that  would  be  required  to  get  supplies  up 
from  Lowville  or  from  the  head  of  the  new  rail- 
road, then  they  should  stay  here. 


,H 


I 

m 


'ill 


i  -i 


^M 


'  \\ 


ii     .  y 


1. 


198  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  Bishop  went  swiftly  among  them,  where 
already  mothers  were  drawing  family  groups  aside 
and  parcelling  out  the  doles  of  food.  Already 
these  mothers  were  erecting  the  invisible  roof-tree 
and  drawing  around  them  and  theirs  the  circle  of 
the  hearth,  even  though  it  was  a  circle  drawn  only 
in  hot,  drifting  ashes.  The  Bishop  was  an  in- 
quisitor  kindly  of  eye  and  understanding  of  heart, 
but  by  no  means  to  be  evaded.  Unsuspected 
stores  of  bread  and  beans  and  tinned  meats  came 
forth  from  nondescript  bundles  of  clothing  and 
were  laid  under  his  eye.  It  appeared  that  Arsene 
LaComb  had  stayed  in  his  little  provision  store 
until  the  last  moment  portioning  out  what  was  his 
with  even  hand,  to  each  one  as  much  as  could  be 
carried.  The  Bishop  saw  that  it  was  all  pitifully 
little  for  those  who  had  lived  in  the  village  and 
for  those  refugees  who  had  been  driven  in  from 
the  surrounding  hills.  But,  he  thought,  it  would 
do.  These  were  people  born  to  frugality,  inured 
to  scanty  living. 

The  thing  now  was  to  give  them  work  for  their 
hands,  to  put  something  before  them  that  was  to 
be  accomplished.  For  even  in  the  ruin  of  all 
things  it  is  not  well  for  men  to  sit  down  in  the 
ashes  and  merely  wait.  They  had  no  tools  left 
but  the  axes  which  they  had  carried  in  their  hands 
to  the  rafts,  but  with  these  they  could  hew  some 
sort  of  shelter  out  of  the  loose  logs  in  the  lake. 
A  rough  shack  of  any  kind  would  cover  at  least 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     199 

the  weaker  ones  until  lumber  could  be  brought  up 
or  until  a  saw  could  be  had  for  the  ruined  mill  at 
the  outlet  of  the  lake.  It  would  be  slow  work  and 
hard  and  a  makeshift  at  the  best.  But  it  would 
put  heart  into  them  to  see  at  least  something,  any- 
thing,  begin  to  rise  from  the  hopeless  level  of  the 
ashes. 

Three  of  the  hill  men  had  managed  to  keep 
their  horses  by  holding  desperately  to  them  all 
through  the  day  before  and  swimming  and  wad- 
ing them  through  the  night  in  the  lake.     These 
the  Bishop  despatched  to  what,  as  near  as  he  could 
*  dge,  were  the  nearest  points  from  which  mes- 
s  jes  could  be  gotten  to  the  world  outside  the 
burnt  district.     They  bore  orders  to  dealers  in  the 
nearest  towns  for  all  the  things  that  were  imme- 
diately necessary  for  the  life  and  rebuilding  of  the 
little  village.     With  the  orders  went  the  notes  of 
hand  of  all  the  men  gathered  here  who  had  had 
a  standing  of  credit  or  whose  names  would  mean 
anything  to  the  dealers.     And,  since  the  world 
outside  would  well  know  that  these  men  had  now 
nothing  that  would  make  the  notes  worth  while, 
each  note  bore  the  endorsement  of  the  Bishop  of 
Alden.     For  the  Bishop  knew  that  there  was  no 
time   to   wait   for   charity   and   its   tardy  relief. 
Credit,  that  intangible,  indefinable  thing  that  alone 
makes  the  life  of  the  world  go  on,  must  be  estab- 
lished    at    once.     And    it    was    characteristic    of 
Joseph  Winthrop  that,  In  endorsing  the  notes  of 


Iff   I  :; 


;i  M'  t 


1     .i;i- 


M  1 


-''Hal 


it-' 

i  i 


ill 


W  ua 


200    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

penniless,  broken  men,  he  did  not  feel  that  he 
was  signing  obligations  upon  himself  and  his  dio- 
cese. He  was  simply  writing  down  his  gospel 
of  his  unbounded,  unafraid  faith  in  all  true  men. 
And  it  is  a  commentary  upon  that  faith  of  his  that 
he  was  never  presented  with  a  single  one  of  the 
notes  he  signed  that  day. 

All  the  day  long  men  toiled  with  heart  and  will, 
dragging  logs  and  driftwood  from  the  lake  and 
cutting,  splitting,  shaping  planks  and  joists  for  a 
shanty,  while  the  women  picked  burnt  nails  and 
spikes  from  the  ruins  of  what  had  been  their 
homes.  So  that  when  night  came  down  over  the 
hills  there  was  an  actual  shelter  over  the  heads  ->f 
women  and  children.  And  the  light  spirited, 
sanguine  people  raised  cheer  after  cheer  as  their 
imagination  leaped  ahead  to  the  new  French  Vil- 
lage that  would  rise  glorious  out  of  the  ashes  of 
the  old.  Then  Father  Ponfret,  catching  their 
mood,  raised  for  them  the  hymn  to  the  Good 
Saint  Anne.  They  were  all  men  from  below 
Beaupre  and  from  far  Chicothomi  where  the  Good 
Saint  holds  the  hearts  of  all.  That  hymn  had 
never  been  out  of  their  childhood  hearing.  They 
sang  it  now,  old  and  young,  good  and  bad,  their 
eyes  filling  with  the  quick-welling  tears,  their 
hearts  rising  high  in  hope  and  love  and  confidence 
on  the  lilt  of  the  air.  Even  the  Bishop,  whose 
singing  voice  approached  a  scandal  and  whose 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD 


20I 


loinec 


French  has  been  spoken  of  befoi 
and  unashamed. 

Then  mothers  clucking  softly  to  their  off- 
spring in  the  twilight  brooded  them  in  to  shelter 
from  the  night  damp  of  the  lake,  and  men,  shar- 
ing odd  pieces  and  wisps  of  tobacco,  lay  down  to 
talk  and  plan  and  dropped  dead  asleep  with  the 
hot  pipes  still  clenched  in  their  teeth. 

Also,  a  bishop,  a  very  tired,  weary  man,  a  very 
old  man  to-night,  laid  his  head  upon  a  saddle  and 
a  folded  blanket  and  considered  the  Mysteries  of 
God  and  His  world,  as  the  beads  slipped  through 
his  fingers  and  unfolded  their  story  to  him. 

Two  men  were  stumbling  fearfully  down 
through  the  ashes  of  the  far  slope  to  the  lake. 
All  day  long  they  had  lain  on  their  faces  in  the 
grass  just  beyond  the  highest  line  of  the  fire.  The 
fire  had  gone  on  past  them  leaving  them  safe. 
But  behind  them  rose  tier  upon  tier  of  barren 
rocks,  and  behind  those  lay  a  hundred  miles  nearly 
of  unknown  country.  They  could  not  go  that 
way.  They  were  not,  in  fact,  fit  for  travel  in  any 
direction.  For  all  the  day  before  they  had  run, 
dodging  like  hunted  rats,  between  a  line  of  fire  — 
of  their  own  making  —  before  them,  and  a  line  of 
armed  men  behind  them.  They  had  outrun  the 
fire  and  gotten  beyond  its  edge.  They  had  out- 
run  the  men  and  escaped  them.  They  were  free 
of  those  two  enemies.     But  a  third  enemy  had 


202     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


I  U    i 


>...^i'tf 


run  with  them  all  through  the  day  yesterday  and 
had  stayed  with  them  through  all  the  horror  of 
last  night  and  it  had  lain  with  them  through  all  the 
blistering  heat  of  to-day,  thirst.  Thirst,  intoler- 
able, scorching  thirst,  drying  their  bones,  splitting 
their  lips,  bulging  their  eyes.  And  all  day  long, 
down  there  before  their  very  eyes,  taunting  them, 
torturing  them  by  its  nearness,  lay  a  lake  cool  and 
sweet  and  deep  and  wide.  It  was  worse  than  the 
mirage  of  any  desert,  for  they  knew  that  it  was 
real.  It  was  not  merely  the  illusion  of  the  sense 
of  sight.  They  could  perhaps  have  stood  the  tor- 
ture of  one  sense.  But  this  lake  came  up  to  them 
through  all  their  senses.  They  could  feel  the  air 
from  it  cool  upon  their  brows.  The  wind  brought 
the  smell  of  water  up  to  taunt  their  nostrils. 
And,  so  near  did  it  seem,  they  could  even  fancy 
that  they  heard  the  lapping  of  the  little  waves 
against  the  rocks.  This  last  they  knew  was  an 
illusion.  But,  for  the  matter  of  that,  all  might 
as  well  have  been  an  illusion.  Armed  men,  their 
enemies  who  had  yesterday  chased  them  with 
death  in  their  hearts,  were  scattered  around  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  alert  and  watching  for  any  one 
who  might  come  out  of  the  fringe  of  shrub  and 
Srass  beyond  the  line  of  the  burnt  ground.  No 
living  thing  could  move  down  that  bare  and 
whitened  hillside  toward  the  lake  without  being 
marked  by  those  armed  men.  And,  for  these  two 
men,  to  be  seen  meant  to  die. 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     203 

So  they  had  lain  all  day  on  their  faces  and  raved 
in  their  torture.  Now  when  they  saw  the  fires  on 
the  shore  where  French  Village  Iiad  been  begin- 
ning to  die  down  they  were  jtumbling  painfully 
and  crazily  down  to  the  water. 

They  threw  themselves  down  heavily  in  the 
burnt  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  lake  and  drank 
greedily,  feverishly  until  they  could  drink  no 
more.  Then  they  rolled  back  dizzily  upon  the 
grass  and  rested  until  they  could  return  to  drink. 
When  they  had  fully  slaked  their  thirst  and  rested 
to  let  the  nausea  of  weakness  pass  from  them  they 
realised  now  that  thirst  was  not  the  only  thing  in 
the  world.  It  had  taken  up  so  much  of  their  re- 
cent thought  that  they  had  forgotten  everything 
else.  Now  a  terrible  and  gnawing  hunger  came 
upon  them  and  they  knew  that  if  they  would  live 
and  travel  —  and  they  must  travel  —  they  would 
have  to  have  food  at  once. 

Over  there  at  the  end  of  the  lake  where  the 
cooking  fires  had  now  died  out  there  were  men 
lying  down  to  sleep  with  full  stomachs.  There 
was  food  over  there,  food  in  plenty,  food  to  be 
had  for  the  taking!  Now  it  did  not  seem  that 
thirst  was  so  terrible,  nor  were  armed  men  any 
great  thing  to  be  feared.  Hunger  was  the  only 
real  enemy.  Food  was  the  one  thing  that  they 
must  have,  before  all  else  and  in  spite  of  all  else. 
They  would  go  over  there  and  take  the  food  in 
the  face  of  all  the  world  1 


'  .  t'.'~i-'-*   1 


If 


hm: 


Ml 


LUiitiillit  ] 


204  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Brom  Bones  was  hobbled  down  by  the  water 
side  picking  drowsily  at  a  few  wisps  of  half-burnt 
grass  and  sniffing  discontentedly  to  himself. 
There  was  a  great  deal  wrong  with  the  world. 
He  had  not,  it  seemed,  seen  a  spear  of  fresh  grass 
for  an  age.  Aid  as  for  oats,  he  did  not  remem- 
ber when  he  had  had  any.  It  was  true  that  Ruth 
had  dug  up  some  baked  potatoes  out  of  a  field  for 
him  and  he  had  been  glad  to  eat  them,  but  — 
Fresh  grass !     Or  oats ! 

Just  then  he  felt  a  strange  hand  slipping  his 
hobbles.  It  was  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at,  of 
course.  But  he  did  not  like  strange  haiis  around 
him.  He  let  fly  a  swift  kick  into  the  dark,  and 
thought  no  more  of  the  matter. 

A  few  moments  later  a  man  went  running  softly 
toward  the  horse.  He  carried  a  bundle  of  tinned 
meats  and  preserves  slung  in  a  coat.  At  peril  of 
his  life  he  had  crept  up  and  stolen  them  from  the 
common  pile  that  was  stacked  up  at  the  very  door 
of  the  shanty  where  the  women  and  children 
slept.  As  he  came  running  he  grabbed  for  Brom 
Bones'  bridle  and  tried  to  launch  himself  across 
the  colt's  back.  In  his  leap  a  can  of  meat  fell  and 
a  sharp  corner  of  it  struck  and  cut  deep  into  Brom 
Bones'  hock.     The  colt  squealed  and  leaped  aside. 

A  man  sprang  up  from  the  side  of  a  fire,  grip- 
ping a  rifle  and  kicking  the  embers  into  a  blaze. 
H?  saw  the  man  struggling  with  the  horse  and 
fired.     The  colt  with  one  unearthly  scream  of  ter- 


V    f 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     205 


ror  leaped  and  plunged  head  down  towards  the 
water,  shot  dead  through  his  stout,  faithful 
heart. 

In  a  moment  twenty  men  were  running  into  the 
dark,  shouting  and  shooting  at  everything  that 
seemed  to  move,  while  the  women  and  children 
screamed  and  wailed  their  fright  within  the  little 
building. 

The  two  men  running  with  the  food  for  which 
they  had  been  willing  to  give  their  lives  dropped 
flat  on  the  ground  unhurt.  The  pursuing  men 
running  wildly  stumbled  over  them.  They  were 
quickly  secured  and  hustled  and  kicked  to  their 
feet  and  brought  back  to  the  fire. 

They  must  die.  And  they  must  die  now. 
They  were  in  the  hands  of  mtn  whose  homes  they 
had  burned,  whose  dear  ones  they  had  menaced 
with  the  most  terrible  of  deaths;  men  who  for 
thirty-six  hours  now  had  been  thirsting  to  kill 
them.     The  hour  had  come. 

"  Take  them  down  to  the  gully.  Build  a  fire 
and  dig  their  graves."  Old  Erskine  Beasley 
spoke  the  sentence. 

A  short,  sharp  cry  of  satisfaction  was  the  an- 
swer. A  cry  that  suggested  the  snapping  of  jaws 
let  loose  upon  the  prey. 

Then  Joseph  Winthrop  stood  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  crowd,  laying  hands  upon  the  two  cower- 
ing men,  and  spoke.  A  moment  before  he  had 
caught  his  heart  saying:     This  is  justice,  let  it  be 


,1 


til' 


u 


III 


PI  hi- 


!  :  i  it 


206  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

done.  But  he  had  cried  to  God  against  the  sin 
that  had  whispered  at  his  heart,  and  he  spoke  now 
calmly,  as  one  assured. 

"  Do  we  do  wisely,  men  ? "  he  questioned. 
"  These  men  are  guilty.  We  know  that,  for  you 
saw  them  almost  in  the  act.  The  sentence  is  just, 
for  they  planned  what  might  have  been  death  for 
you  and  yours.  But  shall  only  these  two  be  pun- 
ished? Are  there  not  others?  And  if  we  silence 
these  two  now  forever,  how  shall  we  be  ever  able 
to  find  the  others?  " 

"  We'll  be  sure  of  these  two,"  said  a  sullen 
voice  in  the  crowd. 

"  True,"  returned  the  Bishop,  raising  his  voice. 
"  But  I  tell  you  there  are  others  greater  than  any 
of  these  who  have  come  into  the  hills  risking  their 
lives.  How  shall  we  find  and  punish  those  other 
greater  ones  ?  And  I  tell  you  further  there  is  one, 
for  it  is  always  one  in  the  end.  I  tell  you  there  is 
one  man  walking  the  world  to-night  without  a 
thought  of  danger  or  disgrace  from  whose  single 
mind  came  all  this  trouble  upon  us.  That  one 
man  we  must  find.  And  I  pledge  you,  my  friends 
and  my  neighbours,"  he  went  on  raising  his  hand, 
"  I  pledge  you  that  that  one  man  will  be  found 
and  that  he  will  do  right  by  you. 

"  Before  these  men  die,  bring  a  justice  —  there 
is  one  of  the  village  —  and  let  them  confess  be- 
fore the  world  and  to  him  on  paper  what  they 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    207 


know  of  this  crime  and  of  those  who  commanded 
it." 

A  grudging  silence  was  the  only  answer,  but  the 
Bishop  had  won  for  the  time.  Old  Toussaint 
Derossier,  the  village  justice,  was  brought  for- 
ward, fumbling  with  his  beloved  wallet  of  papers, 
and  made  to  sit  upon  an  up-turned  bucket  with  a 
slab  across  his  knee  and  write  in  his  long  hand  of 
the  rue  Henri  the  story  that  the  men  told. 

They  were  ready  to  tell.  They  were  eager  to 
spin  out  every  detail  of  all  they  knew  for  they  felt 
that  men  stood  around  them  impatient  for  the 
ending  of  the  story,  that  they  might  go  on  with 
their  task. 

The  Bishop  knew  that  the  real  struggle  was  yet 
to  come.  He  must  save  these  men,  not  only  be- 
cause it  was  his  duty  as  a  citizen  and  a  Christian 
and  a  priest,  but  because  he  foresaw  that  his 
friend,  Jeffrey  Whiting,  might  one  day  be  accused 
of  the  killing  of  a  certain  man,  and  that  these 
men  might  in  that  day  be  able  to  tell  something  of 
that  story  which  he  himself  could  but  must  not 
tell. 

The  temper  of  the  crowd  was  perhaps  running 
a  little  lower  when  the  story  of  the  men  was 
finished.  But  the  Bishop  was  by  no  means  sure 
that  he  could  hold  them  back  from  their  purpose. 
Nevertheless  he  spoke  simply  and  with  a  deter- 
mination that  was  not  to  be  mistaken.     At  the 


ilM- 


:11 


il  [\ 


it       '  i 


ij;  fr 


208  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

first  move  of  the  leaders  of  the  hill  men  to  carry 
out  their  intention,  he  said : 

"  My  men,  you  shall  not  do  this  thing.  Shall 
not,  I  say.  Shall  not.  I  will  prevent.  I  will 
put  this  old  body  of  mine  between.  You  shall 
not  move  these  men  from  this  spot.  And  if  they 
are  shot,  then  the  bullets  must  pass  through  me. 

"  You  will  call  this  thing  justice.  But  you  know 
in  your  hearts  it  is  just  one  thing  —     Revenge." 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yours?  "  came  an  angry 
voice  out  of  the  crowd. 

"  It  is  not  my  business,"  said  the  Bishop  sol- 
emnly. "  It  is  the  business  of  God.  Of  your 
God.  Of  my  God.  Am  I  a  meddling  priest? 
Have  I  no  right  to  speak  God's  name  to  you,  be- 
cause we  do  not  believe  all  the  same  things?  My 
business  is  with  the  souls  of  men  —  of  all  men. 
And  never  in  my  life  have  I  so  attended  to  my  own 
business  as  I  am  doing  this  minute,  when  J  say  to 
you  in  the  name  of  God,  of  the  God  of  my  fiithers 
and  your  fathers,  do  not  put  this  sin  of  murder 
upon  )our  souls  this  night.  Have  you  wives? 
Have  you  mothers?  Have  you  sweethearts? 
Can  you  go  back  to  them  with  blood  upon  your 
hands  and  say:  A  man  warned  us,  but  he  had  no 
business/ 

"  Bind  'hese  men,  I  say.  Hold  them.  Fear 
not.  Justice  shall  be  done.  And  you  will  sec 
right  in  the  end.  As  you  believe  in  your  God, 
oh!  believe  me  now  I     You  shall  see  right!  " 


BUSINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    209 


The  Bishop  stopped.  He  had  won.  He  saw 
it  in  the  faces  of  the  men  about  him.  God  had 
spoken  to  their  hearts,  he  saw,  even  through  his 
feeble  and  unthought  words.  He  saw  it  and  was 
glad. 

He  saw  the  men  bound.  Saw  a  guard  put  over 
them. 

Then  he  went  down  near  to  the  lake  where  a 
girl  kneeling  beside  her  dead  pet  wept  wildly. 
The  proud-standing,  stout-hearted  horse  had  done 
his  noble  part  in  saving  the  life  of  Joseph 
Winthrop,  Bishop  of  Alden.  But  that  Bishop  of 
Alden,  that  mover  of  men,  that  man  of  powerful 
words,  had  now  no  word  that  he  could  dare  to 
say  in  comfort  to  this  grief. 

He  covered  his  face  and  turned,  walking  away 
through  the  ashes  into  the  dark.  And  as  he 
walked,  fingering  his  beads,  he  again  considered 
the  things  of  God  and  His  world. 


t: 


If 


1 


m\i 


;  •■if 


VII 


THE    INNER   CITADEL 

"And,  gentlemen  of  this  jury,   I  propose  to 
prove  to  vour  absolute  satisfaction  that  this  de- 
fendant, Jeffrey  Whiting,  did  wilfully  and  with 
prepared  design,  murder  Samuel  Rogers  on  the 
morning  of  August  twentieth  last.     I  shall  not 
only  prove  to  you  the  existence  of  a  long-standing 
hatred  harboured  by  this  defendant  against  the 
murdered  man,  but  I  will  show  to  you  a  direct  mo- 
five  for  the  crime.     And  I  shall  not  only  prove 
circumstantially  to  you  that  he  and  no  other  could 
have  done  the  deed  but  I  shall  also  convict  him  out 
of  the  unwilling  mouths  of  his  friends  and  neigh- 
hours  who  were,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  actual 
eye-witnesses  of  the  crime." 

In  the  red  sandstone  courthouse  of  Racquette 
County  the  District  Attorney  of  the  county  was 
opening  the  case  for  the  State  against  Jeffrey 
Whiting,  charged  with  the  murder  of  Samuel  Rog- 
ers, who  had  died  by  the  hand  of  Rafe  Gadbeau 
that  grim  morning  on  the  side  of  Bald  Mountain. 

From  early  morning  the  streets  of  Danton,  the 
little  county  seat  of  Racquette  County,  had  been 
(illed  with  the  wagons  and  horses  of  the  hill  peo- 
ple who  had  come  down  for  this,  the  second  day 

210 


lit 


THE  INNER  CITADEL  211 

of  the  trial.     Yesterday  the  jury  had  been  se- 
lected.     They  were  all  men  of  the  villages  and  of 
the  one  little  city  of  Racquette  County,  men  whose 
lives  or  property  had  never  been  endangered  by 
forest  fires.     Judge  Leslie  in  questioning  them  and 
in  ruling  their  selection  had  made  it  plain  that  the 
circumstances  surrounding  the  killing  of  the  man 
Rogers   must   have   no   weight   in   their   minds. 
1  hey  must  be  prepared  to  judge  the  guilt  or  inno- 
cence of  the  prisoner  purely  on  the  charge  of  mur- 
der Itself,  with  no  regard  for  what  rumour  might 
say  the  victim  had  been  doing  at  the  time. 

For  the  prisoner,  it  seemed  unfortunate  that  the 
man  had  been  killed  just  a  mile  or  so  within  the 
line  of  Racquette  County.     Only  a  little  of  the  ex- 
treme  southeastern  corner  of  that  county  had  been 
burned  over  in  the  recent  fire  and  in  general  it  had 
meant  very  little   to  these  people.     In  Tupper 
County  where  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  lived  and  which 
had  suffered  terribly  from  the  fire  it  should  have 
been  nearly  impossible  to  select  a  jury  which  would 
have  been  willing  to  convict  the  slayer  of  Rogers 
under  the  circumstances.     But  to  the  people  of 
the  villages  of  Racquette  County  the  matter  did 
not  come  home.     They  only  knew  that  a  man  had 
been  killed  up  the  corner  of  the  county.     A  forest 
fire  had  started  at  about  the  same  time  and  place. 
But  few  people  had  any  clear  version  of  the  story. 
And  there  seemed  to  be  little  doubt  as  to  the  iden- 
tity  of  the  slayer. 


!i 


212    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


i 


I'. 


, !    > 

«    '>■■. 
(■ 


'•.;■    lis 


There  was  another  and  far  more  potent  reason 
why  it  was  unfortunate  for  Jeffrey  Whiting  that 
Samuel  Rogers  had  died  within  the  lines  of 
Racquette  County.  The  Judge  who  sat  upon  the 
bench  was  the  same  man  who  only  a  few  weeks 
before  had  pleaded  so  unctuously  before  th»  Senate 
committee  for  the  rights  of  the  downtrodden  U. 
&  M.  Railroad  against  the  lawless  people  of  the 
hills.  He  had  given  the  District  Attorney  every 
possible  assistance  toward  the  selection  of  a  jury 
who  would  be  at  least  thoughtful  of  the  interests 
of  the  railroad.  For  this  was  not  merely  a  mur- 
der trial.  It  was  the  case  of  the  people  of  the 
hills  against  the  U.  &  M.  Railroad. 

Racquette  County  was  a  "  railroad "  county. 
The  life  of  every  one  of  its  rising  villages  de- 
pended absolutely  upon  the  good  will  of  the  rail- 
road system  that  h;  I  spread  itself  beneficently 
over  the  county  and  that  had  given  it  a  prosperity 
beyond  that  of  any  other  county  of  the  North. 
Racquette  County  owed  a  great  deal  to  the  rail- 
road, and  it  was  not  in  the  disposition  or  the  plans 
of  the  railroad  to  leave  the  county  in  a  position 
where  it  might  forget  the  debt.  So  the  railroad 
saw  to  it  that  only  men  personally  known  to  its 
officials  should  have  public  office  in  the  county. 
It  had  put  this  judge  upon  this  bench.  And  the 
railroad  was  no  niggard  to  its  servants.  It  paid 
him  well  for  the  very  timely  and  valuable  services 
which  he  was  able  to  render  it. 


t 


*  it 


ii  1 
11  ^ 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


213 


The  grip  which  the  railroad  corporation  had 
upon  the  life  of  Racquette  County  was  so  complex 
and  varied  that  it  extended  to  every  money-mak- 
ing affair  in  the  community.  It  was  an  intangible 
but  impenetrable  mesh  of  Interests  and  influences 
that  extended  in  every  direction  and  crossed  and 
intercrossed  so  that  no  man  could  tell  where  it 
ended.  But  all  men  could  surely  tell  that  these 
lines  of  influence  ran  from  all  ends  of  the  county 
into  the  hand  of  the  attorney  for  the  railroad  in 
Alden  and  that  from  his  hand  they  passed  on  into 
the  hands  of  the  single  great  man  in  New  York 
whose  money  and  brain  dominated  the  whole 
transportation  business  of  the  State.  All  men 
knew,  too,  that  those  lines  passed  through  the 
Capitol  at  Albany  and  that  no  man  there,  from 
the  Executive  down  to  the  youngest  page  in  the 
legislative  corridors,  was  entirely  immune  from 
their  influence. 

Now  the  U.  &  M.  Railroad  had  been  openly 
charged  with  having  procured  the  setting  of  the 
fire  that  had  left  five  hundred  hill  people  homeless 
in  Tupper  and  Adirondack  Counties.  It  would, 
of  course,  be  impossible  to  bring  the  railroad  to 
trial  on  such  a  charge  in  any  county  of  the  State. 
The  company  had  really  nothing  to  fear  in  the  way 
of  criminal  prosecution.  But  the  matter  had 
touched  the  temper  and  roused  the  suspicions  of 
the  great,  headless  body  called  the  public.  The 
railroad  felt  that  it  must  nc .  -^e  silent  under  even 


:  i     f 


i. 

!  r 


l-'-.« 


I   .,!■ 


tiii- 


i 


'iv 


■'i'i^Hi 


1  i' 


ill-  i:i 


214    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

a  muttered  and  vague  charge  of  such  nature.  It 
must  strike  first,  and  in  a  spectacular  manner.  It 
must  divert  the  public  mind  by  a  counter  charge. 

Before  the  rain  had  come  down  to  wet  the  ashes 
of  the  fire,  the  Grand  Jury  of  Racquette  County 
had  been  prepared  to  find  an  ind'ctment  against 
Jeffrey  Whiting  for  the  murder  of  Samuel  Rogers. 
They  had  found  that  Samuel  Rogers  was  an  agent 
of  the  railroad  engaged  upon  a  peaceable  and  law- 
ful journey  through  the  hills  in  the  interests  of  his 
company.  He  had  been  found  shot  through  the 
back  of  the  head  and  the  circumstances  surround- 
ing his  death  were  of  such  a  nature  and  disposi- 
tion as  to  warrant  the  finding  of  a  bill  against  the 
young  man  who  for  months  had  been  leading  a 
stubborn  fight  against  the  railroad. 

The  case  had  been  advanced  over  all  others  on 
the  calendar  in  Judge  Leslie's  court,  for  the  rail- 
road was  determined  to  occupy  the  mind  of  the 
public  with  this  case  until  the  people  should  have 
had  time  to  forget  the  sensation  of  the  fire.  The 
mind  at  the  head  of  the  railroad's  affairs  argued 
that  the  mind  of  the  public  could  hold  only  one 
thing  at  a  time.  Therefore  it  was  better  to  put 
this  murder  case  into  that  mind  and  keep  it  there 
until  some  new  thing  should  arise. 

The  celerity  with  which  Jeffrey  Whiting  had 
been  brought  to  trial;  the  well-oiled  smoothness 
with  which  the  machinery  of  the  Grand  Jury  had 
done  its  work,  and  -'"p  efficient  way  in  which  judge 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


215 


and  prosecuting  attorney  had  worked  together  for 
the  selection  of  what  was  patently  a  "  railroad  " 
jury,  were  all  evidence  that  a  strong  and  confident 
pcwer  was  moving  its  forces  to  an  assured  and 
definite  end.  This  judge  and  this  jury  would 
allow  no  confusion  of  circumstances  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  a  clear-cut  verdict.  The  fact  that  the 
man  had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  setting  fire  to  the 
forests,  if  the  Judge  allowed  it  to  appear  in  the 
record  at  all,  would  not  stand  with  the  jury  as 
justification,  or  even  extenuation  of  the  deed  of 
murder  charged.  The  fate  of  the  accused  must 
hang  solely  on  the  question  of  fact,  whether  or 
not  his  hand  had  fired  the  fatal  shot.  No  other 
question  would  be  allowed  to  enter. 

And  on  that  question  it  seemed  that  the  minds 
of  all  men  were  already  made  up.  The  prisoner's 
friends  and  associates  in  the  hills  had  been  at  first 
loud  in  their  commendation  of  the  act  which  they 
had  no  doubt  was  his.  Now,  though  they  talked 
less  and  less,  they  still  did  not  deny  their  belief. 
It  was  known  that  they  had  congratulated  him  on 
the  very  scene  of  the  murder.  What  room  was 
there  in  the  mind  of  any  one  for  doubt  as  to  the 
actual  facts  of  the  killing?  And  since  his  convic- 
tion or  acquittal  must  hinge  on  that  single  ques- 
tion, what  room  was  there  to  hope  for  his  ac- 
quittal? 

The  hill  people  had  come  down  from  their 
ruined  homes,  where  they  had  been  working  night 


m 


■r 


,!  ,  . 


% 


I      I 


,  * 


H 


1 

1 

1        I 

•4,| 

iff' 

1= 

1i- 


h.-:      I 


|i;i.i  . 


,.l  ■  . 

'i ' 

{  v! 

Il 

2i6  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

and  day  to  put  a  roof  over  their  families  before 
the  cold  should  come.  They  were  bitter  and  sul- 
len and  nervous.  They  had  no  doubt  whatever 
that  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  killed  the  man,  and  they 
had  been  forced  to  come  down  here  to  tell  what 
they  knew  —  every  word  of  which  would  count 
against  them.  They  had  come  down  determined 
that  he  should  not  suffer  for  his  act,  which  had 
been  done,  as  it  were,  in  the  name  of  all  of  them. 
But  the  rapid  certainty  in  which  the  machinery 
of  the  law  moved  on  toward  its  sacrifice  unnerved 
them.  There  was  nothing  for  them  to  do,  it 
seemed,  but  to  sit  there,  idle  and  glum,  waiting 
for  the  end. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  sat  listening  stolidly  to  the 
opening  arraignment  by  the  District  Attorney. 
Tie  was  not  surprised  by  any  of  it.  The  chain  of 
circumstances  which  had  begun  to  wrap  itself 
around  him  that  morning  on  Bald  Mountain  had 
never  for  a  moment  relaxed  its  tightening  hold 
upon  him.  He  had  followed  his  friends  that  day 
and  all  of  that  night  and  had  reached  Lowville 
early  the  next  day.  He  had  found  his  mother 
there  safe  and  his  aunt  and  even  Cassius  Bascom, 
but  had  been  horrified  to  learn  that  Ruth  Lansing 
had  turned  back  into  the  face  of  the  fire  in  an  effort 
to  find  and  bring  back  the  Bishop  of  Alden.  No 
word  had  been  had  of  either  of  them.  He  had 
told  his  mother  exactly  what  had  happened  in  the 
hiils.     He  had  been  ready  to  kill  the  man.     He 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


217 


had  wished  to  do  so.  But  another  had  fired  be- 
fore he  did.  He  had  not,  in  fact,  used  his  gun  at 
all.  She  had  beheved  him  implicitly,  of  course. 
Why  should  she  not?  If  he  had  actually  shot  the 
man  he  would  have  told  her  that  just  as  exactly 
and  truthfully.  But  Jeffrey  was  aware  that  she 
was  the  only  person  who  did  or  would  believe  him. 

He  was  just  on  the  point  of  mounting  one  of  his 
mother's  horses,  to  go  up  into  the  lower  hills  in 
the  hope  of  finding  Ruth  wandering  somewhere, 
when  he  was  placed  under  arr  st  for  the  murder  of 
Rogers.  The  two  men  who  had  escaped  down 
the  line  of  the  chain  had  gotten  quickly  to  a  tele- 
graph line  and  had  made  their  report.  The  rail- 
road people  had  taken  their  decision  and  had  acted 
on  the  instant.  The  warrant  was  ready  and  wait- 
ing for  Jeffrey  before  he  even  reached  Lowville. 

When  he  had  been  taken  out  of  his  own  county 
and  brought  before  the  Grand  Jury  in  Racquette 
County,  he  realised  that  any  hope  he  might  have 
had  for  a  trial  on  the  moral  merits  of  the  case  was 
thereby  lost.  Unless  he  could  find  and  actually 
produce  that  other  man,  whoever  he  was,  who  had 
fired  the  shot,  his  own  truthful  story  was  useless. 
His  own  friends  who  had  been  there  at  hand 
would  not  believe  his  oath. 

His  mother  and  Ruth  Lansing  sat  in  court  in 
the  front  seats  just  to  the  right  of  him.  F  rom  time 
to  time  he  turned  to  smile  reassuringly  at  them 
with  a  confidence  that  he  was  far  from  feeling. 


,:!- 


jvn 


'     <.! 


m 


iiH 


Im 


,  ii 


l ':  If 


1!  ' 


i(  i 


218     THE  STTrPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

His  mother  si  .1  led  back  through  glistening  grey 
eyes,  all  the  while  marking  with  a  twinge  at  her 
heart  the  great  sharp  lines  that  were  cutting  deep 
into  the  big  boyish  face  of  her  son.  Mostly  she 
was  thinking  of  the  morning,  just  a  few  months 
ago  when  her  little  boy,  suddenly  and  unaccount- 
ably grown  to  the  size  of  a  tall  man,  had  been 
obliged  to  lift  up  her  face  to  kiss  her.  He  was 
going  down  into  the  big  world,  to  conquer  it  and 
bring  it  home  for  her.  With  that  boyish  forget- 
fulness  of  everything  but  his  own  plans  of  con- 
quest, which  is  at  once  the  pride  and  the  heart-stab 
of  every  mother  with  her  man  child,  he  had  kissed 
her  and  told  her  the  old,  old  lie  that  we  all  have 
told  —  that  he  would  be  back  in  a  little  while,  that 
all  would  be  the  same  again.  And  she  had  smiled 
up  into  his  face  and  had  compounded  the  lie  with 
him. 

Then  in  that  very  moment  the  man  Rogers  had 
come.  And  the  mother  heart  in  her  was  not 
gentle  at  the  thought  of  him.  He  had  come  like 
a  trail  of  evil  across  their  lives,  embittering  the 
hearts  of  all  of  them.  Never  since  she  had  seen 
him  had  she  slept  a  good  night.  Never  had  she 
been  able  to  drop  asleep  without  a  hard  thought  of 
him.  Even  now,  the  thought  of  him  lying  In  an 
unhonoured  grave  among  the  ashes  of  the  hills 
could  not  soften  her  heart  toward  him.  The 
gentle,  kindly  heart  of  her  was  very  near  to  hating 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


219 


even  the  dead  as  she  thought  of  her  boy  brought 
to  this  pass  because  of  that  man. 

Ruth  Lansing  had  come  twice  to  the  county  jail 
in  Danton  with  his  mother  to  see  Jeffrey.  They 
had  not  been  left  alone,  but  she  had  clung  to  him 
and  kissed  him  boldly  as  though  by  her  right  be- 
fore all  men.  The  first  time  he  had  watched  her 
sharply,  looking  almost  savagely  to  see  her  shrink 
away  from  him  in  pity  and  fear  of  his  guilt,  as 
he  had  seen  men  who  had  been  his  friends  shrink 
away  from  him.  But  there  had  been  not  a  shadow 
of  that  in  Ruth,  and  his  heart  leaped  now  as  he 
remembered  how  she  had  walked  unafraid  into 
his  arms,  looking  him  squarely  and  bravely  in  the 
eyes  and  crying  to  him  to  forget  the  foolish  words 
that  she  had  said  to  him  that  last  day  in  the  hills. 
In  that  pulsing  moment  Jeffrey  had  looked  into 
her  eyes  and  had  seen  there  not  the  love  of  the 
little  girl  that  he  had  known  but  the  unbounded 
love  and  confidence  of  the  woman  who  would  give 
herself  to  him  for  life  or  death.  He  had  seen 
it;  the  look  of  all  the  women  of  earth  who  love, 
whose  feet  go  treading  in  tenderness  and  undying 
pity,  whose  hands  are  fashioned  for  the  healing  of 
torn  hearts. 

It  was  only  when  she  had  gone,  and  when  he  in 
the  loneliness  of  his  cell  was  reliving  the  hour, 
that  he  remembered  that  she  had  scarcely  listened 
to    his   story  of  the   morning  In  the   hills.     Of 


H'' 


fJi! 


ilp 


I 

u 

I?; 

jl 


lil 


!  fi- 


I    4 


V'\ 


3.;- 


^1'  'li 


ij  H 


220  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

course,  she  had  heard  his  story  from  his  mother 
and  was  probably  already  so  familiar  with  it  that 
it  had  lost  interest  for  her.  But  no,  that  was  not 
like  Ruth.  She  was  always  a  direct  little  person, 
who  wanted  to  know  the  exact  how  and  why  of 
everything  first  hand.  She  would  not  have  been 
satisfied  with  anybody's  telling  of  the  matter  but 
his  own. 

Then  a  horrible  suspicion  leaped  into  his  mind 
and  struck  at  his  heart.  Could  it  be  that  she  had 
over-acted  it  all?  Could  it  be  that  she  had 
brushed  aside  his  story  because  she  really  did  not 
believe  it  and  could  not  listen  to  it  without  be- 
traying her  doubt?  And  had  she  blinded  him 
with  her  pity?     Had  she  acted  all  — ! 

He  threw  himself  down  on  his  cot  and  writhed 
in  blind  despair.  Might  not  even  his  mother  have 
deceived  him !  Might  not  she  too  have  been  act- 
ing !  What  did  he  care  now  for  name  or  liberty, 
or  life  itself!  The  girl  had  mocked  him  with 
what  he  thought  was  love,  when  it  was  only  — ! 

But  his  good  sense  brought  him  back  and  set 
him  on  his  feet.  Ruth  was  no  actress.  And  if 
she  had  been  the  greatest  actress  the  world  had 
over  seen  she  could  not  have  acted  that  flooding 
love  light  into  her  eyes. 

He  threw  back  his  head,  laughing  softly,  and 
began  to  pace  his  cell  rapidly.  There  was  some 
other  explanation.  Either  she  had  deliberately 
put  his  story  aside  in  order  to  keep  the  whole  of 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


221 


111 


their  little  time  together  entirely  to  themselves,  or 
Ruth  knew  something  that  made  his  story  unim- 
portant. 

She  had  been  through  the  fire  herself.  Both 
she  and  the  Bishop  muat  have  gone  straight 
through  it  from  their  home  in  its  front  line  to  the 
rear  of  it  at  French  Village.  How,  no  one  could 
tell.  Jeffrey  had  heard  wild  tales  of  the  ex- 
ploit—  The  French  people  had  made  many 
wonders  of  the  coming  of  these  two  to  them  in 
the  hour  of  their  deliverance,  the  one  the  Bishop 
of  their  souls,  the  other  the  young  girl  just  bap- 
tised by  Holy  Church  and  but  little  differing  from 
the  angels. 

Who  could  tell,  thought  Jeffrey,  what  the  fire 
might  have  revealed  to  one  or  both  of  these  two 
as  they  went  through  it.  Perhaps  there  were 
other  men  who  had  not  been  accounted  for. 
Then  he  remembered  Rafe  Gadbeau,  He  had 
been  with  Rogers.  He  had  once  waylaid  Jeffrey 
at  Rogers'  command.  Might  it  not  be  that  the 
bullet  vhich  killed  Rogers  was  intended  for 
Jeffrey  himself!  He  must  have  been  almost  in 
the  line  of  that  bullet,  for  Rogers  had  been  facing 
him  squarely  and  the  bullet  had  struck  Rogers 
fairly  in  the  back  of  the  head. 

Or  again,  people  had  said  that  Rogers  had  pos- 
sessed some  sort  of  mysterious  hold  over  Rafe 
Gadbeau,  and  that  Gadbeau  did  his  bidding  un- 
williptrly,   under   a  pressure  of  fear.     What  if 


U) 


^    !'l 


I^M 


'% 


I    il 


222     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Gadbcau  there  under  the  excitement  of  the  fire, 
and  certain  that  another  man  would  be  charged 
^yith  the  killing,  had  decided  that  here  was  the 
time  and  place  to  rid  himself  of  the  man  who  had 
made  him  his  slave ! 

The  thing  fascinated  him,  as  was  natural;  and, 
pacing  his  cell,  stopping  between  mouthfuls  of  his 
food  as  he  sat  at  the  jail  table,  sitting  up  in  his  cot 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  think,  Jeffrey  caught 
at  every  scrap  of  theory  and  every  thread  of  fact 
that  would  fit  into  the  story  as  it  must  have  hap- 
pened. He  wandered  into  many  blind  trails  of 
theory  and  explanation,  but,  strange  as  it  was,  he 
at  last  came  upon  the  truth  —  and  stuck  to  it. 

Gadbeau  had  killed  Rogers.  Gadbeau  had 
been  caught  in  the  fire  and  had  almost  burned  to 
death.  He  had  managed  to  reach  the  place  where 
Ruth  and  the  Bishop  had  found  refuge.  He  had 
died  there  in  their  presence.  He  had  confessed. 
The  Catholics  always  told  the  truth  when  they 
were  going  to  die.  Ruth  and  the  Bishop  had 
heard  him.     Ruth  kiiczv.     The  Bishop  knew. 

When  Ruth  came  again,  he  watched  her  closely; 
and  saw  —  just  what  he  had  expected  to  see. 
Ruth  knew.  It  was  not  only  her  love  and  her 
confidence  in  him.  She  had  none  of  the  little  whis- 
pering, torturing  doubts  that  must  sometimes,  un- 
bidden, rise  to  frighten  even  his  mother.  Ruth 
knew. 

That  she  should  not  tell  him,  or  give  him  any 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


223 


outward  hint  of  what  she  was  hiding  in  her  mind, 
did  not  surprise  him.  It  was  a  very  serious  mat- 
ter this  with  Catholics.  It  was  a  sacred  matter 
with  anybody,  to  carry  the  secret  of  a  dead  man. 
Ruth  would  not  speak  unnecessarily  of  it.  When 
the  proper  time  came,  and  there  was  need,  she 
would  speak.  For  the  present — Ruth  knew. 
That  was  enough. 

When  the  Bishop  came  down  from  Alden  to  see 
him,  Jeffrey  watched  him  as  he  had  watched  Ruth. 
He  had  never  been  very  observant.  He  had 
never  had  more  than  a  boy's  careless  indifference 
and  disregard  of  details  in  his  way  of  looking  at 
men  and  things.  But  much  thinking  in  the  dark 
had  now  given  him  intuitions  that  were  now  sharp 
and  sensitive  as  those  of  a  woman.  He  was 
quick  to  know  that  the  grip  of  the  Bishop's  hand 
on  his,  the  look  of  the  Bishop's  eye  into  his,  were 
not  those  of  a  man  who  had  been  obliged  to  fight 
against  doubts  in  order  to  keep  his  faith  in  him. 
That  grip  and  that  look  were  not  those  of  a  man 
who  wished  to  believe,  who  tried  to  believe,  who 
told  himself  and  was  obliged  to  keep  on  telling 
himself  that  he  believed  in  spite  of  all.  No. 
Those  were  the  grip  and  the  look  of  a  man  who 
knew.     The  Bishop  knew. 

It  was  even  easier  to  understand  the  Bishop's 
silence  than  it  had  been  to  see  why  Ruth  might  not 
speak  of  what  she  knew.  The  Bishop  was  an 
official  in  a  high  place,  entrusted  with  a  dark  secret. 


.iff 


•Ki 


fill 


224  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


!,•'       ' 


'4'-M 


fi 


He  must  not  speak  of  such  things  without  a  very 
serious  cause.  But,  of  course,  there  was  nothing 
in  this  world  so  sacred  as  the  life  of  an  innocent 
man.  Of  course,  when  the  time  and  the  need 
came,  the  Bishop  would  speak. 

So  Jeffrey  had  pieced  together  his  fragments  of 
fact  and  deduction.     So  he  had  watched  and  dis- 
covered and  reasoned  and  debated  with  himself. 
He  had  not,  of  course,  said  a  word  of  these  things 
to  any  one.     The  result  was  that,  while  he  listened 
to   the   plans   which   his   lawyer,   young  Emmet 
Dardis,   laid   for  his  defence  —  plans  which,  in 
the  face  of  the  incontestable  facts  which  would  be 
brought  against  them,  would  certainly  amount  to 
little  or  nothing  —  he  really  paid  little  attention 
to  them.     For,  out  of  his  reasoning  and  out  of 
the  things  his  heart  felt,  he  had  built  up  around 
himself  an  inner  citadel,  as  it  were,  of  defence 
which  no  attack  could  shake.     He  had  come  to 
feel,  had  made  himsel    feel,  that  his  life  and  his 
name  were  absolutely  safe  In  the  keeping  of  these 
two  people  —  the  one  a  girl  who  loved  him  and 
who  would  give  her  life  for  him,  and  the  other  a 
true  friend,  a  man  of  God,  a  true  man.     He  had 
nothing  to  fear.     When  the  time  came  these  two 
would  speak.     It  was  true  that  he  was  outwardly 
depressed  by  the  concise  and  bitter  conviction  in 
the    words    of    the    prosecuting    attorney.     For 
Lemuel  Squires  was  of  the  character  that  makes 
the  most  terrible  of  criminal  prosecutors  —  an 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


225 


honest,  narrow  man  who  was  always  absolutely 
convinced  of  the  guilt  of  the  accused  from  the 
moment  that  a  charge  had  been  maac.  But  in- 
wardly he  had  no  fear. 

The  weight  of  evidence  that  would  be  brought 
against  him,  the  fact  that  his  own  best  friends 
would  be  obliged  to  give  their  oaths  against  him, 
the  very  feeling  of  being  accused  and  of  having 
to  scheme  and  plan  to  prove  his  innocence  to  a 
world  that  —  except  here  and  there  —  cared  not 
a  whit  whether  he  was  innocent  or  guilty,  all  these 
things  bowed  his  head  and  brought  his  eyes  down 
to  the  floor.  But  they  could  not  touch  that  inner 
wall  that  he  had  built  around  himself.  Ruth 
kneiic;  the  Bishop  knew. 

The  rasping  speech  of  the  prosecutor  was 
finished  at  last. 

Old  Erskine  Beaslcy  was  the  first  witness  called. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  took  him  sharply  in 
hand  at  once  for  though  he  had  been  called  as  a 
witness  for  the  prosecution  it  was  well  known 
that  he  was  unwilling  to  testify  at  all.  So  the  at- 
torney had  made  no  attempt  to  school  him  before- 
hand, and  he  was  determined  now  i.o  allow  him 
to  give  only  direct  answers  to  the  questions  put  to 
him. 

Two  or  three  times  the  old  man  attempted  to 
explain,  at  the  end  of  an  answer,  just  why  he  had 
gone  up  into  the  high  hills  the  night  before  the 
twentieth   of   August  —  that  he   had  heard  that 


:} 


' '- 


'  n 


!■  ^f 


• 


226   THE  siii:i'iij:kd  of  the  north 

Rogers  and  a  band  of  men  had  gone  into  the 
woods  to  start  fires.  But  he  was  ordered  to  stop, 
and  these  parts  of  his  answers  were  kept  out  of  the 
record.  Finally  he  was  rebuked  savagely  by  the 
Judge  and  ordered  to  confine  himself  to  answering 
the  lawyer's  questions,  on  pain  of  being  arrested 
for  contempt.  It  was  a  high-handed  proceeding 
that  showed  the  temper  and  the  intention  of  the 
Judge  and  a  stir  of  protest  ran  around  the  court- 
room. But  old  Erskine  Bcasley  was  quelled. 
He  gave  only  the  answers  that  the  prosecutor 
forced  from  him. 

"  Did  you  hear  a  shot  fired?  "  he  was  asked 
"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  hear  two  shots  fired?" 
"  No." 

"  Did  you  see  Jeffrey  Whiting's  gun?  " 
"Yes." 

"  Did  you  examine  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Had  it  been  fired  off?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Excused,"  snapped  the  prosecutor.  And  the 
old  man,  almost  in  tears,  came  down  from  the 
stand.  He  knew  that  his  simple  yes  and  no  an- 
swers had  made  the  most  damaging  sort  of  evi- 
dence. 

Then  the  prosecutor  went  back  in  the  story  to 
establish  a  motive.  He  called  several  witnesses 
who  had  been  agents  of  the  railroad  and  asso- 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


227 


ciated  in  one  way  or  another  with  the  murdered 
man  in  his  efforts  to  get  options  on  the  farm  lands 
in  the  hills.  Even  these  witnesses,  though  they 
Avere  ready  to  give  details  and  opinions  which 
might  have  heen  favorable  to  his  side  of  the  case, 
he  held  down  strictly  to  answering  with  a  word 
his  own  carefully  thought  out  questions. 

With  these  answers  the  prosecutor  built  up  a 
solid  continuity  of  cause  and  effect  from  the  day 
when  Rogers  had  first  come  into  the  hills  to  offer 
Jeffrey  Whiting  a  part  in  the  work  with  himself 
right  up  to  the  moment  when  the  two  had  faced 
each  other  that  morning  on  Bald  Mountain. 

He  showed  that  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  begun  to 
undermine  and  oppose  Rogers'  work  from  the 
first.  He  showed  why.  Jeffrey  Whiting  came  of 
a  family  well  known  and  trusted  In  the  hills.  The 
young  man  had  been  quick  to  grasp  the  situation 
and  to  believe  that  he  could  keep  the  people  from 
dealing  at  all  with  Rogers.  Rogers'  work  would 
then  be  a  failure.  Jeffrey  Whiting  would  then 
be  pointed  to  as  the  only  man  who  could  get  the 
options  from  the  people.  They  would  sell  c 
hold  out  at  his  word.  The  railroad  would  have 
to  deal  with  him  direct,  and  at  his  terms. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  had  gotten  promises  from 
many  of  the  owners  that  they  would  not  sell  or 
even  sign  any  paper  until  such  time  as  he  gave 
them  the  word.  Did  those  promises  bind  the 
people  to  him?     They  did.     Did  they  have  the 


m 


#' 


*   { 
S  I  ■ 
11 


i 


u  .1 


:i, 


i 


m:  *  '■ 


;i       .»//     ¥ 


228     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

same  effect  as  if  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  obtained 
actual  options  on  the  property?  Yes.  Would 
the  people  stand  by  their  promises?  Yes.  Then 
Whiting  had  actually  been  obtaining  what  were 
really  options  to  himself,  while  pretending  to  hold 
the  people  back  in  their  own  interest  ?     Yes. 

The  prosecutor  went  on  to  draw  out  answer 
after  answer  tending  to  show  that  it  was  not  really 
a  conflict  between  the  people  and  the  railroad 
that  had  been  making  trouble  in  the  hills  all  sum- 
mer ;  that  it  was,  in  fact,  merely  a  personal  strug- 
gle for  influence  and  gain  between  Jeffrey  Whit- 
ing and  the  man  who  had  been  killed.  It  was  skil- 
fully done  and  drawn  out  with  all  the  exaggerated 
eftect  of  truth  which  bald  negative  and  affirmative 
answers  invariably  carry. 

He  went  on  to  show  that  a  bitter  hatred  had 
grown  up  between  the  two  men.  Rogers  had  been 
accused  of  hiring  men  to  get  Whiting  out  of  the 
way  at  a  time  in  the  early  summer  when  many  of 
the  people  about  French  Village  had  been  pre- 
pared to  sign  Rogers'  options.  Rogers  had  been 
obliged  to  fly  from  the  neighbourhood  on  account 
of  Whiting's  anger.  He  had  not  returned  to  the 
hills  until  the  day  before  he  was  killed. 

The  people  in  the  hills  had  talked  freely  of 
what  had  happened  on  Bald  Mountain  on  the 
morning  of  August  twentieth  and  in  the  hills  dur- 
ing the  afternoon  and  night  preceding.  The 
prosecutor  knew  the  incidents  and  knew  what  men 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


229 


had  said  to  each  other.  He  now  called  Myron 
Stocking. 

"  Did  you  meet  Jeffrey  Whiting  on  the  after- 
noon of  August  nineteenth?"  was  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  I  went  lookin'  for  him,  to  tell  — " 

"  Answer,  yes  or  no?  "  shouted  the  attorney. 

"  Yes,"  the  witness  admitted  sullenly. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  Rogers  was  in  the 
hills?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  he  take  his  gun  from  you  and  start  im- 
mediately? " 

"  He  followed  me,"  the  witness  began.  But 
the  Judge  rapped  warningly  and  the  attorney 
yelled : 

•'Yes  or  no?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  see  Rogers  in  the  morning?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  settin'  fire  to  — "  The  Judge 
hammering  furiously  with  his  gavel  drowned  his 
words.     The  attorney  went  on : 

"  Did  you  hear  a  shot?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  hear  two  shots?  " 

"  The  fire  " —  was  making  a  lot  of  noise,  he 
tried  to  say.  But  his  voice  was  smothered  by 
eruptions  from  the  court  and  the  attorney.  He 
was  finally  obliged  to  say  that  he  had  heard  but 
one  shot.     Then  he  was  asked : 


■11 


iU 


230  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


■■li 


II- 


"  What  did  you  say  when  you  came  up  and  saw 
the  dead  man?  " 

"  I  said,  '  Mine  got  away,  Jeff.'  " 
"  What  else  did  you  say?  " 
"  I   said,    '  What's   the   difference,   any   of  us 
would've  done  it  if  we  had  the  chance.'  " 

"  Whiting^s  gun  had  been  fired?  "  asked  the  at- 
torney, working  back. 
"  Yes." 

"  One  question  more  and  I  will  excuse  you," 
said  the  attorney,  with  a  show  of  friendliness  — 
"  I  see  it  is  hard  for  you  to  testify  against  your 
friend.  Did  you,  standing  there  with  the  facts 
fresh  before  you,  conclude  that  Jeffrey  Whiting 
had  fired  the  shot  which  killed  Rogers?  " 

To  this  Emmet  Dardis  vigorously  objected  that 
it  was  not  proper,  that  the  answer  would  not  be 
evidence.  But  the  Judge  overruled  him  sharply, 
reminding  him  that  this  witness  had  been  called 
by  the  prosecution,  that  it  was  not  the  business  of 
opposing  counsel  to  protect  him.  The  witness 
found  himself  forced  to  answer  a  simple  yes. 

One  by  one  the  other  men  who  had  been  pres- 
ent that  fatal  morning  were  called.  Their  an- 
swers were  identical,  and  as  each  one  was  forced 
to  give  his  yes  to  that  last  fateful  question,  con- 
demning Jeffrey  Whiting  out  of  the  mouths  of  his 
friends  who  had  stood  on  the  very  ground  of  the 
murder,  it  seemed  that  every  avenue  of  hope  for 
him  was  closing. 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


231 


On  cross-examination,  Emmet  Dardis  could  do 
little  with  the  witnesses.  He  was  gruffly  re- 
minded by  the  Judge  that  the  witnesses  were  not 
his,  that  he  must  not  attempt  to  draw  any  fresh 
stories  from  them,  that  he  might  only  examine 
them  on  the  facts  which  they  had  stated  to  the 
District  Attorney.  And  as  the  prosecutor  had 
pinned  his  witnesses  down  absolutely  to  answers 
of  known  fact,  there  was  really  nothing  in  their 
testimony  that  could  be  attacked. 

With  a  feeling  of  uselessness  and  defeat,  Em- 
met Dardis  let  the  last  witness  go.  The  State 
promptly  rested  its  case. 

Dardis  began  calling  his  witnesses.  He  real- 
ised how  pitifully  inadequate  their  testimony 
would  be  when  placed  beside  the  chain  of  facts 
which  the  District  Attorney  had  pieced  together. 
They  were  in  the  main  character  witnesses,  hardly 
more.  They  could  tell  only  of  their  long  ac- 
quaintance with  Jeffrey  Whiting,  of  their  belief  in 
him,  of  their  firm  faith  that  in  holding  the  people 
back  from  giving  the  options  to  Rogers  and  the 
railroad  he  had  been  acting  in  absolute  good  faith 
and  purely  in  the  interests  of  the  people.  Not 
one  of  these  men  had  been  near  the  scene  of  the 
murder,  for  the  railroad  had  planned  its  cam- 
paign comprehensively  and  had  subpoenaed  for  its 
side  every  man  who  could  have  had  any  direct 
knowledge  of  the  events  leading  up  to  the  trajr- 
edy.     As  line  after  line  of  their  testimony  was 


!| 


I- 


1 ,1 


ii:i 


232     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

stricken  from  the  record,  as  being  irrelevant,  it 
was  seen  that  the  defence  had  little  or  no  case 
Finally  the  Judge,  tiring  of  luling  on  the  single 
objections,  made  a  general  ruling  that  no  testi- 
mony  which  did  not  tend  to  reveal  the  identity 
of  the  man  who  had  shot  Rogers  could  go  into  the 
record. 

Bishop  Joseph  Winthrop  of  Alden  sat  anx- 
lously  watching  the  course  of  the  trial.  Beside 
him  sat  little  Father  Ponfret  from  French  Vil- 
lage.  The  little  French  priest  looked  up  from 
time  to  time  and  guardedly  studied  the  long  angu- 
lar white  head  of  his  bishop  as  It  towered  above 
him.  He  did  not  know,  but  he  could  guess  some 
of  the  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  the  mind  and 
the  heart  of  the  Bishop. 

The  Bishop  had  come  down  to  the  trial  to  give 
what  aid  he  could,  in  the  way  of  showing  his  con- 
fidence  and  faith,  to  the  case  of  the  boy  who  stood 
m  peril  of  his  life.     In  the  beginning,  when  he 
had  first  heard  of  Jeffrey's  arrest,  he  had  not 
thought  It  possible  that,  even  had  he  been  guilty 
of  actually  firing  the  shot,  Jeffrey  could  be  con- 
victed  under  such  circumstances.     Men  must  see 
that  the  act  was  In  defence  of  life  and  property. 
But  as  he  listened  to  the  progress  of  the  trial  he 
realised  sadly  that  he  had  very  much  underestl- 
mated  the  seriousness  of  the  railroad  people  in  the 
matter  and  the  hold  which  they  had  upon  the  ma- 
chinery  of  justice  In  Racquette  County. 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


233 


He  had  gladly  offered  to  go  upon  the  stand  and 
tell  the  reason  why  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  entered 
Into  this  fight  against  the  railroad.  He  would  as- 
sociate himself  and  his  own  good  name  with  the 
things  that  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  done,  so  that  the 
two  might  stand  before  men  together.  But  he 
now  saw  that  it  would  be  of  no  avail.  His  words 
would  be  swept  aside  as  irrelevant. 

One  thing  and  only  one  thing  would  now  avail 
Jeffrey  Whiting.  This  morning  on  his  arrival  in 
Danton,  the  Bishop  had  been  angered  at  learn- 
ing that  the  two  men  whose  lives  he  had 
saved  that  night  by  the  lake  at  French  Village 
had  escaped  from  the  train  as  they  were  being 
brought  from  Lowville  to  Danton  to  testify  at 
this  trial. 

Whether  they  could  have  told  anything  of  value 
to  Jeffrey  Whiting  was  not  known.  Certainly 
they  were  now  gone,  and,  almost  surely,  by  the 
connivance  of  the  railroad  people.  The  Bishop 
had  their  confession  in  his  pocket  at  this  minute, 
but  there  was  nothing  in  it  concerning  the  murder. 
He  had  intended  to  read  it  into  the  record  of  the 
trial.  He  saw  that  he  would  not  be  allowed  to 
do  so. 

One  thing  and  only  one  thing  would  now  avail 
Jeffrey  Whiting.  Jeffrey  Whiting  would  be  con- 
demned to  death,  unless,  within  the  hour,  a  man 
or  woman  should  rise  up  in  this  room  and  swear : 
Jeffrey    Whiting    did    not    kill    Samuel    Rogers. 


1 1 

ii 


:l  i 

"i 


ru 


i.t 


!'l  •  f 


234  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


I  saw  him.     Or 


Rafe  Gadbeau  did  the  deed. 
He  told  me  so. 

The  Bishop  remembered  how  that  day  last  win- 
ter he  had  set  the  boy  upon  this  course  which  had 
brought  him  here  into  this  court  and  into  the 
shadow  of  pubhc  disgrace  and  death.  If  Jeffrey 
Whiting  had  actually  fired  the  shot  that  had  cut 
off  a  human  life,  would  not  he,  Joseph,  Bishop  of 
Alden,  have  shared  a  measure  of  the  responsibil- 
ity?    He  would. 

And  if  Jeffrey  Whiting,  through  no  fault  of 
his  own,  but  through  a  chain  of  circumstances, 
stood  now  in  danger  of  death,  was  not  he,  Joseph 
Winthrop,  who  had  started  the  boy  into  the  midst 
of  these  circumstances,  in  a  way  responsible?  He 
was. 

Could  Joseph  Winthrop  by  rising  up  in  this 
court  and  saying:  "  Rafe  Gadbeau  killed  Samuel 
Rogers—  He  told  me  so"— could  he  thus 
save  Jeffrey  Whiting  from  a  felon's  fate?  He 
could.     Nine  words,  no  more,  would  do. 

And  if  he  could  so  save  Jeffrey  Whiting  and 
did  not  do  what  was  necessary  —  did  not  speak 
those  nine  words  —  would  he,  Joseph  Winthrop, 
be  responsible  for  the  death  or  at  least  the  im- 
prisonment and  ruin  of  Jeffrey  Whiting?  He 
would. 

Then  what  would  Joseph  Winthrop  do? 
Would  he  speak  those  nine  words?  He  would 
not. 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


235 


There  was  no  claim  of  life  or  death  that  had 
the  force  to  break  the  seal  and  let  those  nine  words 
escape  his  lips. 

There  was  no  conflict,  no  battle,  no  indecision 
in  the  Bishop's  mind  as  he  sat  there  waiting  for 
his  name  to  be  called.  He  loved  the  boy  who  sat 
there  in  the  prisoner's  stand  before  him.  He  felt 
responsible  for  him  and  the  situation  in  which  he 
was.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  dead  man  or  the 
dead  man's  secret,  as  such.  Yet  he  would  go 
up  there  and  defy  the  law  of  humanity  and  the 
law  of  men,  because  he  was  bound  by  the  law  that 
is  beyond  all  other  law;  the  law  of  the  eternal  sal- 
vation of  men's  souls. 

But  there  was  no  reasoning,  no  weighing  of 
the  issue  in  his  mind.  His  course  was  fixed  by  the 
eternal  Institution  of  God.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  determined,  nothing  to  be  argued.  He  was 
caught  between  the  greater  and  the  lesser  law  and 
he  could  only  stand  and  be  ground  between  the 
working  of  the  two. 

If  he  had  reasoned  he  would  have  said  that  Al- 
mighty God  had  ordained  the  salvation  of  men 
through  the  confession  of  sin.  Therefore  the  sal- 
vation of  men  depended  on  the  inviolability  of  the 
seal  of  the  confessional.  But  he  did  not  reason. 
He  merely  sat  through  his  torture,  waiting. 

When  his  name  was  called,  he  walked  heavily 
forward  and  took  his  place  standing  beside  the 
chair  that  was  set  for  him. 


ft 
§ 

'i' 


>'!  i\. 


II 


fl  1 


i 


II 


1 


il  I 


i    ' 


i.     k  f 


V,'  ■    i 


236     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

At  Dardis'  question,  the  Bishop  began  to  speak 
freely  and  rapidly.  He  told  of  the  coming  of 
Jeffrey  Whiting  to  him  for  advice.  He  repeated 
what  he  had  said  to  the  boy,  and  from  that  point 
went  on  to  sketch  the  things  that  had  been  hap- 
pening in  the  hills.  He  wanted  to  get  clearly  be- 
fore the  minds  of  the  jurymen  the  fact  that  he 
had  advised  and  directed  Jeffrey  Whiting  in  every- 
thing that  the  boy  had  done. 

The  Judge  was  loath  to  show  any  open  dis- 
courtesy to  the  Bishop.  But  he  saw  that  he  must 
stop  him.  His  story  could  not  but  have  a  power- 
ful effect  upon  even  this  jury.  Looking  past  the 
Bishop  and  addressing  Dardis,  he  said: 

"  Is  this  testimony  pertinent?" 

"  It  is,  if  Your  Honor  pardon  me,"  said 
the  Bishop,  turning  quickly.  "  It  goes  to  prove 
that  Jeffrey  Whiting  could  not  have  committed 
the  crime  charged,  any  more  than  I  could  have 
done  so." 

The  Bishop  did  not  stop  to  consider  carefully 
the  logic  or  the  legal  phraseology  of  his  answer. 
He  hurried  on  with  his  story  to  the  jury.  He 
related  his  message  from  Albany  to  Jeffrey  Whit- 
ing. He  told  of  his  ride  into  the  hills.  He  told 
of  the  capture  of  the  two  men  in  the  night  at 
French  Village.  They  should  be  here  now  as 
witnesses.  They  had  escaped.  But  he  held  in  his 
hand  a  written  confession,  written  and  sealed  by  a 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


237 
He 


justice  of  the  peace,  made  by  the  two  men. 
would  read  this  to  the  jury. 

He  began  reading  rapidly.  But  before  he  had 
gotten  much  past  the  opening  sentences,  the  Judge 
saw  that  this  would  not  do.  It  was  the  story  of 
the  plan  to  set  the  fire,  and  it  must  not  be  read  in 
court. 

He  rapped  sharply  with  his  gavel,  and  when 
the  Bishop  stopped,  he  asked : 

"  Is  the  murder  of  Samuel  Rogers  mentioned 
in  that  paper?  " 

"  No,  Your  Honor.     But  there  are  — " 

"  It  is  irrelevant,"  interrupted  the  Judge 
shortly.     "  It  cannot  go  before  the  jury." 

The  Bishop  was  beaten;  he  knew  he  could  do 
no  more. 

Emmet  Dardis  was  desperate.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  hope  for  his  client  —  unless  —  un- 
less. He  knew  that  Rafe  Gadbeau  had  made  con- 
fession to  the  Bishop.  He  had  wanted  to  ask 
the  Bishop  this  morning,  if  there  was  not  some 
way.  He  had  not  dared.  Now  he  dared.  The 
Bishop  stood  waiting  for  his  further  questions. 
There  might  be  some  way  or  some  help,  thought 
Dardis;  maybe  some  word  had  dropped  which  was 
not  a  part  of  the  real  confession.  He  said 
quickly : 

"  You  were  with  Rafe  Gadbeau  at  his  death?  " 

"  I  was." 


•A 


!'•    I 


11 


^e.*.  11 


I  -^ 


Hi 


:.  1  , 


:|j'        i 


:    ';•/    I 


238     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you?  " 
Jeffrey  Whiting  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
his  eyes  eager  and  confident.     His  heart  shout- 
ing  that  here  was  his  deliverance.     Here  was  the 
hour  and  the  need !     The  Bishop  would  speak ! 

The  Bishop's  eyes  fell  upon  the  prisoner  for 
an  instant.     Then  he  looked  full  into  the  eyes  of 
his  questioner  and  he  answered: 
"  Nothing." 

"That  will  do.  Thank  you,  Bishop,"  said 
Dardis  in  a  low,  broken  voice. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  fell  back  In  his  chair.  The 
light  of  confidence  died  slowly,  reluctantly  out  of 
his  eyes.  The  Bishop  had  spoken.  The  Bishop 
had  lied!     He  knew!     And  he  had  lied/ 

As  the  Bishop  walked  slowly  back  to  his  seat, 
Ruth  Lansing  saw  the  terrible  suffering  of  the 
spirit  reflected  in  his  face.  If  she  were  questioned 
about  that  night,  she  must  do  as  he  had  done. 

Mother  in  Heaven,  she  prayed  in  agony,  must 
I  do  that?     Can  I  do  that? 

Oh!  She  had  never  thought  it  would  come  to 
this.  How  could  it  happen  like  this !  How  could 
any  one  think  that  she  would  ever  stand  like  this, 
alone  in  all  the  world,  with  the  fate  of  her  love 
in  her  hands,  and  not  be  able  to  speak  the  few 
little  words  that  would  save  him  to  her  and  life ! 

She  zuoiild  save  him!  She  would  speak  the 
words !     What  did  she  care  for  that  wicked  man 


J  Hi 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


239 


who  had  died  yelling  out  that  he  was  a  murderer? 
Why  should  she  keep  a  secret  of  his?  One  night 
in  the  early  summer  she  had  lain  all  through  the 
night  in  the  woods  outside  a  cabin  and  wished 
for  a  way  to  kill  that  man.  Why  should  she 
guard  a  secret  that  was  no  good  to  him  or  to  any 
one  now? 

Who  was  it  that  said  she  must  not  speak? 
The  Catholic  Church.  Then  she  would  be  a  Cath- 
olic no  longer.  She  would  renounce  it  this  min- 
ute. She  had  never  promised  anything  like  this. 
But,  on  the  instant,  she  knew  that  that  would  not 
free  her.  She  knew  that  she  could  throw  off  the 
outward  garment  of  the  Church,  but  still  she 
would  not  be  free  to  speak  the  words.  The 
Church  itself  could  not  free  her  from  the  seal  of 
the  secret.  What  use,  then,  to  fly  from  the 
Church,  to  throw  off  the  Church,  when  the  bands 
of  silence  would  still  lie  mighty  and  unbreakable 
across  her  lips. 

That  awful  night  on  the  Gaunt  Rocks  flamed  up 
before  her,  and  what  she  saw  held  her. 

What  she  saw  was  not  merely  a  church  giving 
a  sacrament.  It  was  not  the  dramatic  falling  of 
a  penitent  at  the  feet  of  a  priest.  It  was  not  a 
poor  Frenchman  of  the  hills  screaming  out  his 
crime  in  the  agony  and  fear  of  death. 

What  she  saw  was  a  world,  herself  standing  all 
alone  in  it.     What  she  saw  was  the  soul  of  the 


t 


1,1'   I 


i  4. 


i'':t*f! 


240    THE  SHEPHIRD  OF  THE  NORTH 

world  giving  up  its  sin  inro  the  scale  of  God  from 
which  —  Heart  break  .r  world  burn!  —  that  sin 
must  never  be  disturbed. 

As  she  went  slowly  across  the  front  of  the  room 
in  ansr-er  to  her  name,  a  ^irl  came  out  of  one  01 
the  aisles  and  stood  almost  in  her  path.  Ruth 
looked  up  and  found  herself  staring  dully  into 
the  fierce,  piercing  eye^  ot  Cynthe  Cardinal.  She 
saw  the  look  in  those  eves  which  she  had  recog- 
nised for  the  first  time  that  day  at  French  Vil- 
lage—the terrible  mother-hunger  look  of  love, 
ready  to  die  for  its  own.  And  though  the  girl 
said  nothing,  Ruth  could  hear  the  warning  words : 
Remember!     You  love  Jeffrey  Whiting. 

How  well  that  girl  knew ! 

Dardis  had  called  Ruth  only  to  contradict  a 
point  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  correct  in  the 
testimony  of  Myron  Stocking.  But  since  he  had 
dared  to  bring  up  the  matter  of  Rafe  Gadbeau  to 
the  Bishop,  he  had  become  more  desperate,  and 
bolder.  Ruth  might  speak.  And  there  was  al- 
ways a  chance  that  the  dying  man  had  said  some- 
thing to  her. 

"  You  were  with  Jeffrey  Whiting  on  the  after- 
noon when  word  was  brought  to  him  that  sus- 
picious men  had  been  seen  in  the  hills?"  he 
asked. 

"  Yes.  sir." 

"  Was  the  name  of  Rogers  mentioned  by  either 
Stocking  or  Whiting?  " 


THE  INNER  CITADEL 


'41 


'*  No,  sir." 

Then  he  flashed  the  question  upon  her : 

"  What  did  Rafe  Gadbeau  say  when  he  was 
dying?" 

Ruth  staggered,  quivering  in  every  nerve. 
The  impact  of  the  sudden,  startling  question  leap- 
ing upon  her  over-wrought  mind  was  nothing  to 
what  followed.  For,  in  answer  to  the  question, 
there  came  a  scream,  a  terrified,  agonised  scream, 
mingled  of  fright  and  remorse  and  -  relief.  A 
scream  out  of  the  fire.  A  scream  from  death. 
On  my  knee  I  dropped  and  shot  him,  shot  Rogers 
as  he  stood. 

Again  Jeffrey  Whiting  leaned  forward  smil- 
ing. Again  the  inner  citadel  of  his  hope  stood 
strong  about  him.  Ruth  was  there  to  speak  the 
word  that  would  free  him!  Her  love  would  set 
him  freel  It  was  the  time.  Ruth  knew.  He 
would  rather  have  it  this  way.  He  was  almost 
glad  that  the  Bishop  had  lied.  Ruth  knew. 
Ruth  would  speak. 

The  words  of  that  terrible  scream  went  sear- 
ing through  Ruth's  brain  and  down  into  the  very 
roots  of  her  being.  Oh !  for  the  power  to  shout 
them  out  to  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

But  she  looked  levelly  at  Dardis  and  in  a  clear 
voice  answered : 

"  Nothing." 

Then,  at  his  word,  she  stumbled  down  out  of 
the  stand. 


im 


t  |i| 

Hi 


.1  .' 


It  '^ 


242  IHE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Again  Jeffrey  Whiting  fell  back  into  his  seat. 
Ruth  had  litd! 

The  walls  of  his  inner  citadel  had  fallen  in  and 
crushed  him. 


-  * 


1 .1.  i 


"1     1.' 


ii 


VIII 


li 


SEIGNEUR   DIEU,    WHITHER  GO   I? 

The  Bishop  walked  brokenly  from  the  court- 
house and  turned  up  the  street  toward  the  little 
church.  He  had  not  been  the  same  man  since  his 
experience  of  those  two  terrible  nights  in  the 
hills.  They  had  aged  him  and  shaken  him  visibly. 
But  those  nights  of  suffering  and  superhuman  ef- 
fort had  only  attacked  him  physically.  They  had 
broken  the  spring  of  his  step  and  had  drawn 
heavily  upon  the  vigour  and  the  vital  reserves 
which  his  years  of  simple  living  had  left  stored 
up  in  him.  He  had  fought  with  fire.  He  had 
looked  death  in  the  face.  He  had  roused  his  soul 
to  master  the  passions  of  men.  No  man  who  has 
already  reached  almost  the  full  alloted  span  of 
life  may  do  these  things  without  showing  the  out- 
ward effects  of  them.  But  these  things  had  struck 
only  at  the  clay  of  the  body.  They  had  not 
touched  the  quick  spirit  of  the  man  within. 

The  trial  through  which  he  had  passed  to-day 
had  cut  deep  into  the  spiritual  fibre  of  his  being. 
If  Joseph  Winthrop  had  been  given  the  alternative 
of  speaking  his  secret  or  giving  up  his  life,  he 
would  have  offered  the  few  years  that  might  be 

243 


r 


-f  ,c: 


244  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

his,  without  question  or  halting.  For  he  was  a 
man  of  simple,  single  mind.  He  never  quibbled 
or  thought  of  taking  back  any  of  the  things  which 
he  had  given  to  Christ.  Thirty  years  ago  he  had 
made  his  compact  with  the  Master,  and  he  had 
never  blinked  the  fact  that  every  time  a  priest  puts 
on  a  stole  to  receive  the  secret  of  another's  soul 
he  puts  his  life  in  pledge  for  the  sanctity  of  that 
secret.  It  was  a  simple  business,  unclouded  by 
any  perplexities  or  confusion. 

Never  had  he  thought  of  the  alternative  which 
had  this  day  been  forced  upon  him.     Years  ago 
he  had  given  his  own  life  entire  to  Christ.     The 
snapping  of  it  here  at  this  point  or  a  few  spaces 
farther  on  would  be  a  matter  of  no  more  moment 
than  the  length  of  a  thread.     This  world  had 
nothing  to  give  him,  nothing  to  withhold  from 
him.     But  to  guard  his  secret  at  the  cost  0/  an- 
other life,  and  that  a  young,  vigorous,  battling 
life  full  of  future  and  promise,  full  of  youth  and 
the  glory  of  living,  the  life  of  a  boy  he  loved  — 
that  was  another  matter.     Never  had  he  reckoned 
with  a  thing  such  as  that.     Life  had  always  been 
so  direct,  so  square-cut  for  Joseph  Winthrop.     To 
think  right,  to  do  right,  to  serve  God ;  these  things 
had  always  seemed  very  simple.     But  the  thing 
that  he  had  done  to-day  was  breaking  his  heart. 
He  could  not  have  done  otherwise.     He  had  been 
given  no  choice,  to  be  sure. 

But  was  it  possible  that  God  would  have  al- 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


245 


lowed  things  to  come  to  that  issue,  if  somewhere, 
at  some  turn  in  that  line  of  circumstances  which 
had  led  up  to  this  day,  Joseph  Winthrop  had  not 
done  a  wrong?  It  did  not  seem  possible.  Some- 
where he  had  done  wrong  or  he  had  done  fool- 
ishly—  and,  where  men  go  to  direct  the  lives  of 
others,  to  do  unwisely  is  much  the  same  as  to  do 
wickedly. 

What  use  to  go  over  the  things  that  he  had 
done,  the  things  that  he  had  advised  ?  What  use 
to  say,  here  he  had  done  his  best,  there  he  thought 
only  of  the  right  and  the  wise  thing.  Somewhere 
he  had  spoken  foolishly,  or  he  had  been  headstrong 
in  his  interference,  or  he  had  acted  withou*^ 
thought  and  prayer.  What  use  to  go  over  the 
record?  He  could  only  carry  this  matter  to  God 
and  let  Him  see  his  heart. 

He  stumbled  in  the  half  light  of  the  darkened 
little  church  and  sank  heavily  into  the  last  pew. 
Out  of  the  sorrow  and  anguish  of  his  heart  he 
cried  out  from  afar  to  the  Presence  on  the  little 
altar,  where  he,  Bishop  of  Alden,  had  often 
spoken  with  much  authority. 

When  Cynthe  Cardinal  saw  Ruth  Lansing  go  up 
into  the  witness  stand  she  sank  down  quietly  into 
a  front  seat  and  seemed  fairly  to  devour  the  other 
girl  with  the  steady  gaze  of  her  fierce  black  eyes. 
She  hung  upon  every  fleeting  wave  of  the  contend- 
ing emotions  that  showed  themselves  on  Ruth's 
face.     She  was  convinced  that  this  girl  knew  that 


1    ■.! 
I. 


l!' 


Qt^ 


i 

IMJI 

9 

it 

246  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Rafe  Gadbeau  had  confessed  to  the  murder  of 
Samuel  Rogers  and  that  Jeffrey  Whiting  was  inno- 
cent. She  had  not  thought  that  J  h  would  be 
called  as  a  witness,  and  Dardis,  in  tact,  had  only 
decided  upon  it  at  the  hst  moment. 

Once  Cynthe  Cardinal  had  been  very  near  to 
hating  this  girl,  for  she  had  seen  Rafe  Gadbeau 
leave  herself  at  a  dance,  one  afternoon  a  very  long 
time  ago,  and  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  after- 
noon talking  gaily  to  Ruth  Lansing.     Now  Rafe 
Gadbeau  was  gone.     There  was  nothing  left  of 
him  whom  Cynthe  Cardinal  had  loved  but  a  mem- 
ory.    But  that  memory  was  as  much  to  her  ai  was 
the  life  of  Jeffrey  Whiting  to  this  other  girl.     She 
was  sorry  for  the  other  girl.     Who  would  not  be  ? 
What  would  that  girl  do  ?     If  the  question  was  not 
asked  directly,  it  was  not  likely  that  the  girl  would 
tell  what  she  knew.     She  would  not  wish  to  tell. 
She  would  certainly  try  to  avoid  it.     But  if  the 
question  came  to  her  of  a  sudden,  without  warn- 
ing,   without    time    for   thought?     What   then? 
Would  that  girl  be  strong  enough  to  deny,  to  deny 
and  to  keep  on  denying? 

Who  could  tell?  The  girl  was  a  Catholic. 
But  she  was  a  convert.  She  did  not  know  the 
terrible  secret  of  the  confessional  as  they  knew  it 
who  had  been  born  to  the  Faith. 

Cynthe  herself  had  meant  to  keep  away  from 
this  trial.  She  knew  it  was  no  place  for  her  to 
carry  the  awful  secret  that  she  had  hidden  away 


I 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


247 


in  her  heart.  No  matter  how  deeply  she  might 
have  it  hidden,  the  fear  hung  over  her  that  men 
would  probe  for  it.  A  word,  a  look,  a  hint  might 
be  enough  to  set  some  on  the  search  for  it  and 
she  had  had  a  superstition  that  it  was  a  secret  of  a 
nature  that  it  could  not  be  hidden  forever.  Some 
day  some  one  would  tear  it  from  her  heart.  She 
knew  that  it  was  dangerous  for  her  to  be  in  Dan- 
ton  during  these  days  when  the  hill  people  were 
talking  of  nothing  but  the  killing  of  Rogers  and 
hunting  for  any  possible  fact  that  might  make 
Jeffrey  Whiting's  story  believable.  But  she  had 
been  drawn  irresistibly  to  the  trial  and  had  sat  all 
day  yesterday  and  to-day  listening  feverishly, 
avidly  to  every  word  that  was  said,  waiting  to 
hear,  and  praying  against  hearing  the  name  of 
the  man  she  had  loved.  The  idea  of  protecting 
his  name  and  his  memory  from  the  blight  of  his 
deed  had  become  more  than  a  religion,  more  than 
a  sacred  trust  to  her.  It  filled  not  only  her  own 
thought  and  life  but  it  seemed  even  to  take  up  that 
great  void  in  her  world  which  Rafe  Gadbeau  had 
filled. 

When  she  had  heard  his  name  mentioned  in  that 
sudden  questioning  of  the  Bishop,  she  had  almost 
jumped  from  her  seat  to  cry  out  to  him  that  he 
must  know  nothing.  But  that  was  foolish,  she 
reflected.  They  might  as  well  have  asked  the 
stones  on  the  top  of  the  Gaunt  Rocks  to  tell  Rafe 
Gadbeau's  secret  as  to  ask  it  from  the  Bishop. 


f 


it  ? 


'i' 


i     -.    ! 


r  v-.^ 


■•It 


248     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

But  this  girl  was  different.  You  could  not  tell 
what  she  might  do  under  the  test.  If  she  stood 
the  test,  if  she  kept  the  seal  unbroken  upon  her 
hps,  then  would  Cynthe  be  her  willing  slave  for 
life.  She  would  love  that  girl,  she  would  fetch 
for  her,  work  for  her,  die  for  her ! 

When  that  point-blank  question  came  leaping 
upon  the  tortured  girl  in  the  stand,  Cynthe  rose 
to  her  feet.     She  expected  to  hear  the  girl  stam- 
mer and  blurt  out  something  that  would  give  them 
a  chance  to  ask  her  further  questions.     But  when 
she  saw  the  girl  reel  and  quiver  in  pain,  when  she 
saw  her  gasp  for  breath  and  self-control,  when  she 
saw  the  hunted  agony  in  her  eyes,  a  great  light 
broke    in  upon   the   heart  of  Cynthe   Cardinal. 
Here  was  not  a  pale  girl  of  the  convent  who  could 
not  know  what  love  was !     Here  was  a  woman, 
a  sister  woman,  who  could  suffer,  who  for  the  sake 
of  one  greater  thing  could  trample  her  love  under 
foot,  and  who  could  and  did  sum  it  all  up  in  one 
steady  word  — "  Nothing." 

Cynthe  Cardinal  revolted.  Her  quickened 
heart  could  not  look  at  the  torture  of  the  other 
girl.  She  wanted  to  run  forward  and  throw  her- 
self at  the  feet  of  the  other  girl  as  she  came  stag- 
gering  down  from  the  stand  and  implore  her  par- 
don. She  wanted  to  cry  out  to  her  that  she  must 
tell !  That  no  man,  alive  or  dead,  was  worth 
all  this!  For  Cynthe  Cardinal  knew  that  truth 
bitterly.     Instead,    she    turned    and    ran    like    a 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


249 


r 
i'i 


frightened,  wild  thing  out  of  the  room  and  up  the 
street. 

She  had  seen  the  Bishop  come  direct  from  the 
little  church  to  the  court.  And  as  she  watched 
his  face  when  he  came  down  from  the  stand,  she- 
knew  instinctively  that  he  was  going  back  there. 
Cynthe  understood.  Even  M'sieur  the  Bishop 
who  was  so  wise  and  strong,  he  was  troubled.  He 
thought  much  of  the  young  Whiting.  He  would 
have  business  with  God. 

She  slipped  noiselessly  in  at  the  door  of  the 
church  and  saw  the  Bishop  kneeling  there  at  the 
end  of  the  pew,  bowed  and  broken. 

He  was  first  aware  of  her  when  he  heard  a 
frightened,  hurrying  whisper  at  his  elbow.  Some 
one  was  kneeling  in  the  aisle  beside  him,  saying: 

Mon  Pere,  je  me  'cuse. 

The  ritual  would  have  told  him  to  rise  and  go  to 
the  confessional.  But  here  was  a  soul  that  vas 
pouring  its  secret  out  to  him  in  a  torrential  rush  of 
words  and  sobs  that  would  not  wait  for  ritual. 
The  Bishop  listened  without  raising  his  head.  He 
had  neither  the  will  nor  the  power  to  break  in  upon 
that  cruel  story  that  had  been  torturing  its  keeper 
night  and  day.  He  knew  that  it  was  true,  knew 
what  the  end  of  it  would  be.  But  still  he  must  be 
careful  to  give  no  word  that  would  show  that  he 
knew  what  was  coming.  The  French  of  the  hills 
and  of  Beaupre  was  a  little  too  rapid  for  him  but 
it  was  easy  to  follow  the  thread  of  the  story. 


1  i 


^•fj 


r 

i 

t 

1  1 

i 

1 

M 

i 

'v 

T   ' 

.i 

1 

'•<!  ; 


j^  :l'i 


'''    '■'  ■■■■■  i 

!  C  i"'    • 


f)i 


f  •  f  i  -I 


M 


250     Tlir:  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

When  she  had  finished  and  was  weeping  quietly, 
the  Bishop  prompted  gently. 

"  And  now?  my  daughter." 

"And  now,  Mon  Perc,  must  I  tell?  I  would 
not  tell.  I  loved  Rafe  Gadbeau.  As  long  as  I 
shall  live  I  shall  love  him.  For  his  good  name 
I  would  die.  But  I  cannot  see  the  suffering  of 
that  girl,  Ruth.  Mon  Pere,  it  is  too  much!  I 
cannot  stand  it.  Yet  I  cannot  go  there  before 
men  and  call  my  love  a  murderer.  Consider, 
Mon  Pere.  There  is  another  way.  I,  too,  am 
guilty.  I  wished  for  the  death  of  that  man.  I 
would  have  killed  him  myself,  for  he  had  made 
Rafe  Gadbeau  do  many  things  that  he  would  not 
have  done.  He  made  my  love  a  murderer.  I 
went  to  keep  Rafe  Gadbeau  from  the  setting  of 
the  fire.  But  I  would  have  killed  that  man  my- 
self with  the  gun  if  I  could.  So  I  hated  him. 
When  I  saw  him  fall,  I  clapped  my  hands  in  glee. 
See,  Mon  Pere,  I  am  guilty.  And  I  called  joy- 
fully to  my  love  to  run  with  me  and  save  himself, 
for  he  was  now  free  from  that  man  forever.  But 
he  ran  in  the  path  of  the  fire  because  he  feared 
those  other  men. 

"  i)Ut  see,  Mon  Pere,  I  am  guilty.  I  will  go 
and  tell  the  court  that  I  am  the  guilty  one.  I  will 
say  that  my  hand  shot  that  man.  See,  I  will  tell 
the  story.  I  have  told  it  many  times  to  myself. 
Such  a  straight  story  I  shall  tell.  And  they  will 
believe.     I   will  make  them  believe.     And  they 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


251 


will  not  hurt  a  girl  much,"  she  said,  dropping  back 
upon  her  native  shrewdness  to  strengthen  her  plea. 
"  The  railroad  does  not  care  who  killed  Rogers. 
They  want  only  to  punish  the  young  Whiting. 
And  the  court  will  believe,  as  I  shall  tell  it." 

"  But,  my  daughter,"  said  the  Bishop,  temporis- 
ing.    "  It  would  not  be  true.     We  must  not  lie." 
"  But  M'sieur  the  Bishop,  himself,"  the  girl 
argued  swiftly,  evidently  separating  the  priest  in 
the  confessional  from  the  great  bishop  in  his  public 
walk,  "  he  himself,  on  the  stand  — " 
The  girl  stopped  abruptly. 
The  Bishop  held  the  silence  of  the  grave. 
'*  Mon   Pere   will   make   me   tell,   then  —  the 
truth,"    she    began.     " Mon    Pere,    I    cannot! 
I— 1" 

"  Let  us  consider,"  the  Bishop  broke  in  delib- 
erately. "  Suppose  he  had  told  this  thing  to  you 
when  he  was  dying.  You  would  have  said  to  him : 
Your  soul  may  not  rest  if  you  leave  another  to 
suffer  for  your  deed.  Would  he  not  have  told 
you  to  tell  and  clear  the  other  man?  " 

"  To  escape  Hell,"  said  the  girl  quickly,  "  yes. 
He  would  have  said:  Tell  everything;  tell  any- 
thing! "  In  the  desolate  forlornness  of  her  grief 
she  had  not  left  to  her  even  an  illusion.  Just  as 
he  was,  she  had  known  the  man,  good  and  bad, 
brave  and  cowardly  —  and  had  loved  him. 
Would  always  love  him. 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  Hell,"  said  the  Bishop 


if? 


'  I. 


WAi 


'I 


i   I 


I'i!- 


252     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

gently.  "  In  that  hour  he  would  have  seen  the 
right.     He  would  have  told  you  to  lell." 

"  But  he  confessed  to  M'sieur  the  Bishop  him- 
self," she  retorted  quickly,  still  seeming  to  forget 
that  she  was  talking  to  the  prelate  in  person,  but 
springing  the  trap  of  her  quick  wit  and  sound 
Moral  Theology  back  upon  him  with  a  vengeance, 
"  and  he  gave  him  no  leave  to  speak." 

The  Bishop  in  a  panic  hurried  past  the  danger- 
ous ground. 

"  If  he  had  left  a  debt,  would  you  pay  it  for  him, 
my  daughter?  " 

"  Mon  Pere,  with  the  bones  of  my  hands!  " 

"  Consider,  then,  he  is  not  now  the  man  that 
you  knew.  The  man  who  was  blind  and  walked 
in  dark  places.  He  is  now  a  soul  in  a  world  where 
a  great  light  shines  about  him.  He  knows  now 
that  which  he  did  not  know  here —  Truth. 
He  sees  the  things  which  here  he  did  not  see.  He 
stands  alone  in  the  great  open  space  of  the  Be- 
yond. He  looks  up  to  God  and  cries:  Seigneur 
Dieii,  whither  go  I  ? 

"  And  God  replying,  asks  him  why  does  he  hesi- 
tate, standing  in  the  open  place.  Would  he  come 
back  to  the  world? 

"  And  he  answers:  '  No,  my  God;  but  I  have 
left  a  debt  behind  and  another  man's  life  stands 
in  pledge  for  my  debt;  I  cannot  go  forward  with 
that  debt  unpaid.' 

"  Then  God:     '  x\nd  is  there  none  to  cancel  the 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


253 


debt?  Is  there  not  one  in  all  that  world  who 
loved  you?  Were  you,  then,  so  wicked  that  none 
loved  you  who  will  pay  the  debt? ' 

"  And  he  will  answer  with  a  lifted  heart:  '  My 
God,  yes;  there  was  one,  a  girl;  in  spite  of  me,  she 
loved  me;  she  will  make  the  debt  right;  only  be- 
cause she  loved  me  may  I  be  saved;  she  will  speak 
and  the  debt  will  be  right;  my  God,  let  me  go.'  " 

The  Bishop's  French  was  sometimes  wonder- 
fully and  fearfully  put  together.  But  the  girl 
saw  the  pictures.  The  imagery  was  familiar  to 
her  race  and  faith.  She  was  weeping  softly,  with 
almost  a  little  break  of  joy  among  the  tears.  For 
she  saw  the  man,  whom  she  had  loved  in  spite  of 
what  he  was,  lifted  now  out  of  the  weaknesses  and 
sins  of  life.  And  her  love  leaped  up  quickly  to 
the  ideal  and  the  illusions  that  every  woman  craves 
for  and  clings  to. 

"This,"  the  Bishop  was  going  on  quietly,  "  is 
the  new  man  we  are  to  consider;  the  one  who 
stands  in  the  light  and  sees  Truth.  We  must  not 
hear  the  little  mouthings  of  the  world.  Does  he 
care  for  the  opinions  or  the  words  that  are  said 
here?  See,  he  stands  in  the  great  open  space, 
all  alone,  and  dares  to  look  up  to  the  Great  God 
and  tell  Him  all.  Will  you  be  afraid  to  stand  in 
the  court  and  tell  these  pc  ople,  who  do  not  matter 
at  all? 

*'  Remember,  it  is  not  for  Jeffrey  Whiting.     It 
is  not  for  the  sake  of  Ruth  Lansing.     It  is  be- 


m 


1 

i 


1  • 


...11 


*!'  ,'  i! 


i||"-:'|;f»j 


i 


^ 


254 


HIE  Slll.rill.RD  OF  THK  NORTH 


cause  the  man  you  loved  calls  back  to  you,  from 
where  he  has  gone,  to  do  the  thing  which  the  wis- 
dom he  has  now  learned  tells  him  must  be  done. 
1  le  has  learned  the  lesson  of  eternal  Truth.  He 
would  have  you  tell." 

"  Mon  Pere,  1  will  tell  the  tale,"  said  the  girl 
simply  as  she  rose  from  her  knees.  "  I  will  go 
quickly,  while  I  have  yet  the  courage." 

The  Bishop  went  with  her  to  one  of  the  counsel 
rooms  in  the  courthouse  and  sent  for  Dardis. 

"  This  girl,"  he  told  the  lawyer,  "  has  a  story 
to  tell.  I  think  you  would  do  wisely  to  put  her 
on  the  stand  and  let  her  tell  it  in  her  own  way. 
She  will  make  no  mistakes.  They  will  not  be  able 
to  break  her  down." 

Then  the  Bishop  went  back  to  take  up  again  his 

business  with  God. 

As  a  last,  and  almost  hopeless,  resort,  Jeffrey 
Whiting  had  been  put  upon  the  stand  in  his  own 
defence.  There  was  nothing  he  could  tell  which 
the  jurors  had  not  already  heard  in  one  form  or 
another.  Everybody  had  heard  what  he  had  said 
that  morning  on  Bald  Mountain.  He  had  not 
been  believed  even  then,  by  men  who  had  never 
had  a  reason  to  doubt  his  simple  word.  There 
was  little  likelihood  that  he  would  be  believed  here 
now  by  these  jurors,  whose  minds  were  already 
fixed  by  the  facts  and  the  half  truths  which  they 
had  been  hearing.  But  there  was  some  hope  that 
his  youth  and  the  manly  sincerity  with  which  he 


sruGNF.uR  Dir:u 


255 


clung  to  his  simple  story  might  have  some  eticct. 
It  might  be  that  a  single  man  on  that  jury  would 
be  so  struck  with  his  single  sturdy  tale  that  he 
would  refuse  to  disbelieve  it  altogether.  You 
could  never  tell  what  might  strike  a  man  on  a  jury. 
So  Oardis  argued. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  did  not  care.     If  his  counsel 
wished  him  to  tell  his  story  he  would  do  so.     It 
would  not  matter.     His  own  friends  did  not  be- 
lieve his  story.     Nobody  believed  it.     Two  peo- 
ple knew  that  it  was  true.     And  those  two  people 
had  stood  up  there  upon  the  stand  and  sworn  that 
they  did  not  know.     One  of  them  was  a  good  man, 
a  man  of  God,  a  man  he  would  have  trusted  with 
every  dear  thing  that  life  held.     That  man  had 
stood  up  there  and  lied.     The  other  was  a  girl 
whom  he  loved,  and  who,  he  was  sure,  loved  him. 
It  had  not  been  easy  for  Ruth  to  tell  that  lie  — 
or  maybe  she  did  not  consider  it  a  lie :  he  had  seen 
her  suffer  terribly  in  the  telling  of  it.     He  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  he  did  not  care  much  what 
was  the  outcome  of  the  trial.     Life  was  a  good 
thing,  it  was  true.     And  death,  or  a  life  of  death, 
is  a  murderer,  was  worse  than  twenty  common 
deaths.     But  that  had  all  dropped  into  the  back- 
ground.    Only  one  big  thing  stood  before  him. 
It  laid  hold  upon  him  and  shook  him  and  took 
from  him  his  interest  in  every  other  fact  in  the 

world. 

Ruth  Lansing,  he  thought  he  could  say,  had 


4 


'   ,1' 


:0i 


256  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

never  before  in  her  life  told  a  lie.  Why  should 
she  have  ever  told  a  Vt.  She  had  never  had  rea- 
son to  fear  any  one;  and  they  only  lie  who  fear. 
He  would  have  said  that  the  fear  of  death  could 
not  have  made  Ruth  Lansing  lie.  Yet  she  had 
stood  up  there  and  lied. 

For  what?  For  a  church.  For  a  religion  to 
which  she  had  foolishly  given  herself.  For  that 
she  had  given  up  him.  For  that  she  had  given  up 
her  conscience.  For  that  she  had  given  up  her 
own  truth! 

It  was  unbelievable.  But  he  had  sat  here  and 
listened  to  it. 

He  had  heard  her  lie  simply  and  calmly  in  an- 
swer to  a  question  which  meant  life  or  death  to 
him.  She  had  known  that.  She  could  not  have 
escaped  knowing  it  if  she  had  tried.  There  was 
no  way  in  which  she  could  have  fooled  herself  or 
been  persuaded  into  believing  that  she  was  not 
lying  or  that  she  was  not  taking  from  him  his  last 
hope  of  life. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  did  not  try  to  grapple  or  reason 
with  the  fact.  What  was  the  use?  It  was  the 
end  of  all  things.  He  merely  sat  and  gazed 
dumbly  at  the  monstrous  thing  that  filled  his  v;hole 
mental  vision. 

He  went  forward  to  the  witness  chair  and  stood 
woodenly  until  some  one  told  him  to  be  seated. 
He  answered  the  questions  put  him  automatically, 
without  looking  either  at  the  questioner  or  at  the 


^Tt. 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


257 


jury  who  held  his  fate  in  their  hands.  Men  who 
had  been  watching  the  alert,  keen-faced  boy  all  day 
yesterday  and  through  to-day  wondered  what  had 
happened  to  him.  Was  he  breaking  down? 
Would  he  confess?  Or  had  he  merely  ceased 
hoping  and  turned  sullen  and  dumb? 

Without  any  trace  of  emotion  or  interest,  he 
told  how  he  had  raced  forward,  charging  upon  the 
man  who  was  setting  the  fire.  He  looked  vacantly 
at  the  Judge  while  the  latter  ordered  that  part  of 
his  words  stricken  out  which  told  what  the  man 
was  doing.  He  showed  no  resentment,  no  feeling 
of  any  kind.  He  related  how  the  man  had  run 
away  from  him,  trailing  the  torch  through  the 
brush,  and  again  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  the 
Judge's  anger  in  cautioning  him  not  to  mention 
the  fire  again. 

At  his  counsel's  direction,  he  went  through  a 
lifeless  pantomime  of  falling  upon  one  knee  and 
pointing  his  rifle  at  the  fleeing  man.  Now  the 
man  turned  and  faced  him.  Then  he  heard  the 
shot  which  killed  Rogers  come  from  the  woods. 
He  dropped  hij  own  rifle  and  went  forward  to 
look  at  the  dying  man.  He  picked  up  the  torch 
and  threw  it  away. 

Then  he  turned  to  fight  the  fire.  (This  time 
the  Judge  did  not  rule  out  the  word.)  Then  his 
rifle  had  exploded  in  his  hands,  the  bullet  going 
just  past  his  ear.  The  charge  had  scorched  his 
neck.     It  was  a  simple  story.     The  thing  might 


« li 


f^i.fi! 


258     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

have  happened.  It  was  entirely  credible.  There 
were  no  contradictions  in  it.  But  the  manner  of 
Jeffrey  Whiting,  telling  it,  gave  no  feeling  of 
reality.  It  was  not  the  manner  of  a  man  telling 
one  of  the  most  stirring  things  of  his  life.  He 
was  not  telling  what  he  saw  and  remembered  and 
felt  and  was  now  living  through.  Rather,  he 
seemed  to  be  going  over  a  wearying,  many-times- 
told  tale  that  he  had  rehearsed  to  tedium.  A 
sleeping  man  might  have  told  it  so.  The  jury 
was  left  entirely  unconvinced,  though  puzzled  by 
the  manner  of  the  recital. 

Even  Lemuel  Squires'  harping  cross  questions 
did  not  rouse  Jeffrey  to  any  attention  to  the  story 
that  he  had  told.  At  each  question  he  went  back 
to  the  point  indicated  and  repeated  his  recital  dully 
and  evenly  without  any  thought  of  what  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  was  trying  to  make  him  say.  He 
was  not  thinking  of  the  District  Attorney  nor  of 
the  story.  He  was  still  gazing  mentally  in  stupid 
wonder  at  the  horrible  fact  that  Ruth  Lansing  had 
lied  his  life  away  at  the  word  of  her  church. 

When  he  had  gotten  back  to  the  little  railed  en- 
closure where  he  was  again  the  prisoner,  he  sat 
down  heavily  to  wait  for  the  end  of  this  wholly 
irrelevant  business  of  the  trial.  Another  witness 
was  called.  He  did  not  know  that  there  was  an- 
other. He  had  expected  that  Squires  would  begin 
his  speech  at  once. 

He  noticed  that  this  witness  was  a  girl  from 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


259 


French  Village  whom  he  had  seen  several  times. 
Now  he  remembered  that  she  was  Rafe  Gadbeau's 
girl.     What  did  they  bring  her  here  for?     She 
could  not  know  anything,  and  why  did  they  want 
to  pester  the  poor  thing?     Didn't  the  poor  little 
thing  look  sorry  and  troubled  enough   without 
fetching  her  down  here  to  bring  it  all  up  to  her 
He  roused  himself  to  look  reassuringly  at  the  girl, 
as  though  to  tell  her  not  to  mind,  that  it  did  not 
matter  anyway,  that  he  knew  she  could  not  help 
him,  and  that  she  must  not  let  them  hurt  her. 

Dardis,  to  forestall  objections  and  to  ensure 
Cynthe  against  interruptions  from  the  prosecutor 
or  the  Judge,  had  told  her  to  say  nothing  about 
fire  but  to  speak  directly  about  the  killing  of  Rog- 
ers and  nothing  else.  So  when,  after  she  had  been 
sworn,  he  told  her  to  relate  the  things  that  led  up 
to  the  killing,  she  began  at  the  very  beginning : 

"  Four  years  ago,"  she  said,  ^  Rafe  Gadbeau 
was  in  Utica.  A  man  was  killed  in  a  crowd. 
His  knife  had  been  used  to  kill  the  man.  Rafe 
Gadbeau  did  not  do  that.  Often  he  has  sworn 
to  me  that  he  did  not  know  who  had  done  it.  But 
a  detective,  a  man  named  Rogers,  found  the  knife 
and  traced  it  to  Rafe  Gadbeau.  He  did  not  arrest 
him  No,  he  kept  the  knife,  saying  that  some  day 
he  would  call  upon  Rafe  Gadbeau  for  the  price 

of  his  silence.  , 

"  Last  summer  this  man  Rogers  came  into  the 
woods  looking  for  some  one  to  help  get  the  people 


t  ■■■■ 


\1 


;■■' .  J- 


i<-.' 


\'i 


if 


260  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

to  sell  their  land.  He  saw  Rafe  Gadbeau.  He 
showed  him  the  knife.  He  told  him  that  what- 
ever he  laid  upon  him  to  do,  that  he  must  do.  He 
made  him  lie  to  the  people.  He  made  him  attack 
the  young  Whiting.  He  made  him  do  many 
things  that  he  would  not  do,  for  Rafe  Gadbeau 
was  not  a  bad  man,  only  foolish  sometimes.  And 
Rafe  Gadbeau  was  sore  under  the  yoke  of  fear 
that  this  man  had  put  upon  him. 

"  At  times  he  said  to  me,  '  Cynthe,  I  will  kill 
this  man  one  day,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  all.' 
But  I  said,  '  iXon,  tiori,  man  Rafe,  we  will  marry  in 
the  fall,  and  go  away  to  far  Beaupre  where  he  will 
never  see  you  again,  and  we  will  not  know  that  he 
ever  lived.'  " 

Cynthe  had  forgotten  her  audience.  She  was 
telling  over  to  herself  the  tragedy  of  her  little  life 
and  her  great  love.  Genius  could  not  have  told 
her  how  better  to  tell  it  for  the  purpose  for  which 
her  story  was  here  needed.  Dardis  thanked  his 
stars  that  he  had  taken  the  Bishop's  advice,  to  let 
her  get  through  with  it  in  her  own  way. 

"  But  it  was  not  time  for  us  to  marry  yet,"  she 
went  on.  "  Then  came  the  morning  of  the  nine- 
teenth August.  I  was  sitting  on  the  back  steps 
of  my  aunt's  house  by  the  Little  Tupper,  putting 
apples  on  a  string  to  hang  up  in  the  hot  sun  to 
dry."  The  Judge  turned  impatiently  on  his  bench 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  girl  saw  and 
her  eyes  blazed  angrily  at  him.     Who  was  he  to 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


261 


shrug  his  shoulders!  Was  It  not  important,  this 
story  of  her  love  and  her  tragedy!  Thereafter 
the  Judge  gave  her  the  most  rigid  attention. 

"  Rafe  Gadbeau  came  and  sat  down  on  the  steps 
at  my  feet.  I  saw  that  he  was  troubled.  '  What 
is  it,  wo«  Rafe? '  I  asked.  He  groaned  and  said 
one  bad  word.  Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  just 
had  a  message  from  Rogers  to  meet  him  at  the 
head  of  the  rail  with  three  men  and  six  horses. 
'  What  to  do,  mon  Rafe? '  '  I  do  not  know,'  he 
said, '  though  I  can  guess.     But  I  will  not  tell  you, 

Cynthe.' 

"  *  You  will  not  go,  mon  Rafe.  Promise  me 
you  will  not  go.  Hide  away,  and  we  will  slip 
down  to  the  Falls  of  St.  Regis  and  be  married  — 
me,  I  do  not  care  for  the  grand  wedding  in  the 
church  here  — and  then  we  will  get  away  to 
Beaupre.     Promise  me.' 

"  '  Bien,  Cynthe,  I  promise. 

him.' 

"  But  it  was  a  man's  promise, 
go  in  the  end. 

"  I  watched  and  followed, 
what  I  could  do.  But  I  followed,  hoping  that 
somewhere  I  could  get  Rafe  before  they  had  done 
what  they  intended  and  we  could  run  away  together 
with  clean  hands. 

"  When  I  saw  that  they  had  gone  toward  the 
railroad  I  turned  aside  and  climbed  up  to  the  Bald 
Mountain.     I   knew  they  would  all  come  back 


I  will  not  go  to 
I  knew  he  would 
I  did  not  know 


1  -. 


■I'l 


262  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

there  together      I  waited  until  it  was  dark  and 

hey  came       fhey  would  do  nothing  in  the  night. 

I  waited  for  the  morning.     Then  1  would  find 

Kate  and  bnng  him  away.     I  was  desperate      I 

was  a  wild  girl  that  night.      If  I  could  have  found 

that  Rogers  and  come  near  him  I  would  have  killed 

h.m  myself.     I  hated  him,  for  he  had  made  me 

much  suffermg. 

"  In  the  morning  I  was  in  the  woods  near  them. 
I  saw  Rafe.  But  that  Rogers  kept  him  always 
near  h;m.  ^ 

''I  saw  Rogers  go  out  of  the  wood  a  little  to 
look  Rafe  was  a  little  way  from  him  and  com- 
ing slowly  toward  me.  I  called  to  him.  He  did 
not  hear.  I  saw  the  look  in  his  face.  It  was  the 
look  of  one  who  has  made  up  his  mind  to  kill. 
Again  I  called  to  him.     But  he  did  not  hear. 

I  savv  Rogers  go  running  along  the  edge  of  the 
wood.     Now  he  came  running  back  toward  Rafe 
He  stopped  and  turned. 

"  The  young  Whiting  was  on  his  knee  with  the 

rifle  raised  to  shoot.     I  looked  to  Rafe      The 

sound  of  his  gun  struck  me  as  I  turned  my  face. 
1  he  bullet  struck  Rogers  in  the  back  of  the  head. 

I  saw.     The  young  Whiting  had  not  fired  at  all. 

^       1  turned  and  ran,  calling  to  Rafe  to  follow  me. 
Come  with  me,  man  Rafe,'  I  called.     *  I,  too,  am 

gxnity.     I   would   have  killed  him  in  the  night. 

Come  with  me.     We  will  escape.     The  fire  will 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


263 


cover  all.     None  will  ever  know  but  you  and  me, 
and  I  am  guilty  as  you.     Come.' 

"  But  he  did  not  hear.  And  I  wished  him  to 
hear.  Oh  1  I  wished  him  at  least  to  hear  me  say 
that  I  took  the  share  of  the  guilt,  for  I  did  not 
wish  to  be  separated  from  him  in  this  world  or  the 
next. 

"  But  he  ran  back  always  into  the  path  of  the 
fire,  for  those  other  men,  the  old  M'sieur  Beasley 
and  the  others,  were  closing  behind  him  and  the 
fire." 

She  was  speaking  freely  of  the  fire  now,  but 
it  did  not  matter.  Her  story  was  told.  The  big, 
hot  tears  were  flowing  freely  and  her  voice  rose 
into  a  cry  of  farewell  as  she  told  the  end. 

"  Then  he  was  down  and  I  saw  the  fire  roll  over 
him.  Oh,  the  great  God,  who  is  good,  was  cruel 
that  day!  Again,  at  the  last,  I  saw  him  up  and 
running  on  again.  Then  the  fire  shut  him  out 
from  my  sight,  and  God  took  him  away. 

"  That  is  all.  I  ran  for  the  Little  Tupper  and 
was  safe." 

Dardis  did  not  try  to  draw  another  word  from 
her  on  any  part  of  the  story.  He  was  artist 
enough  to  know  that  the  story  was  complete  in  its 
naive  and  tragic  simplicity.  And  he  was  judge 
enough  of  human  nature  to  understand  that  the 
jury  would  remember  better  and  hold  more  easily 
her  own  unthought,  clipped  expressions  than  they 


^-  Q 


ill 

hi 


264     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

would  any  more  connected  elaborations  he  might 
try  to  make  her  give. 

Lemuel  Squires  was  a  narrow  man,  a  born  prose- 
cutor. He  had  always  been  a  useful  officer  to  the 
railroad  powers  because  he  was  convinced  of  the 
guilt  of  any  prisoner  whom  it  was  his  business  to 
brmg  into  court.  He  regarded  a  verdict  of  ac- 
quittal as  hardly  less  than  a  personal  insult.  He 
denied  that  there  were  ever  two  sides  to  any  case. 
But  his  very  narrowness  now  confounded  him 
here.  This  girl's  story  was  true.  It  was  astound- 
ing,  impossible,  subversive  of  all  things.  But  it 
was  true. 

His  mind,  one-sided  as  it  was  always,  had  room 
for  only  the  one  thing.  The  story  was  true.  He 
asked  her  a  few  unimportant  questions,  leading 
nowhere,  and  let  her  go.  Then  he  began  his  sum- 
ming up  to  the  jury. 

It  was  a  half-hearted,  wholly  futile  plea  to  them 
to  remember  the  facts  by  which  the  prisoner  had 
already  been  convicted  and  to  put  aside  the  girl's 
dramatic  story.  He  was  still  convinced  that  the 
prisoner  was  guilty.  But  — the  girl's  story  was 
true.  His  mind  was  not  nimble  enough  to  escape 
the  shock  of  that  fact.  He  was  helpless  under  it. 
His  pleading  was  spiritless  and  wandering  while 
his  mind  stood  aside  to  grapple  with  that  one 
astounding  thing. 

The  Judge,  however,  in  charging  the  jury  was 
troubled  by  none  of  these  hampering  limitations 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


265 


of  mind.  He  had  always  regarded  the  taking  and 
discussion  of  evidence  as  a  rather  wearisome  and 
windy  business.  All  democracy  was  full  of  such 
wasteful  and  time-killing  ways  of  coming  to  a  con- 
clusion. The  boy  was  guilty.  The  powers  who 
controlled  the  county  had  said  he  was  guilty. 
Why  spoil  good  time,  then,  quibbling. 

He  charged  the  jury  tha*:  the  girl's  testimony 
was  no  more  credible  than  that  of  a  dozen  other 
witnesses  —  which  was  quite  true.  All  had  told 
the  truth  as  they  understood  it,  and  saw  it.  But 
he  glided  smoothly  over  the  one  important  differ- 
ence. The  girl  had  seen  the  act.  No  other,  not 
even  the  accused  himself,  had  been  able  to  say  that. 

He  delivered  an  extemporaneous  and  daringly 
false  lecture  on  the  comparative  force  of  evidence, 
intended  only  to  befog  the  minds  of  the  jurors. 
But  the  effect  of  it  was  exactly  the  opposite  to  that 
which  he  had  intended,  for,  whereas  they  had  up 
to  now  held  a  fairly  clear  view  of  the  things  that 
had  been  proven  by  the  adroit  handling  of  his  facts 
by  the  District  Attorney,  they  now  forgot  all  that 
structure  of  guilt  which  he  so  laboriously  buiL  up 
and  remembered  only  one  thing  clearly.  And 
that  thing  was  the  story  of  Cynthe  Cardinal. 

Without  leaving  their  seats,  they  intimated  that 
they  had  come  to  an  agreement. 

The  Judge,  glowering  dubiously  at  them,  de- 
manded to  know  what  it  was. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  stood  up. 


f 


r:MS' 


1 .:,    f 


I 


f-^A. 


266   Tiir:  siir.piiFRi)  of  tiif  north 

The  foreman  rose  and  faced  the  Judge  stub- 
bornly, saying: 

"  Not  guilty." 

The  Judge  polled  the  jury,  glaring  fiercely  at 
each  man  as  his  name  was  called,  but  one  after 
another  the  men  arose  and  answered  gruffly  for 
acquittal.  The  hill  people  rushed  from  the  court- 
house, running  for  their  horse;  and  shouting  the 
verdict  as  they  ran.  Then  sleepy  little  Danton 
awoke  from  its  September  drowse  and  was  aware 
that  something  real  had  happened.  The  elabor- 
ate machinery  of  prosecution,  the  whole  political 
power  of  the  county,  the  mighty  grip  and  pressure 
of  the  railroad  power  had  all  been  set  at  nothing 
by  the  tragic  little  love  story  of  an  ignorant  French 
girl  from  the  hills. 

Dardis  led  Jeffrey  Whiting  down  from  the  place 
where  he  had  been  a  prisoner  and  brought  him  to 
his  mother. 

Jeffrey  turned  a  long  searching  gaze  down  into 
his  mother's  eyes  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her.  What 
he  saw  tilled  him  with  a  bitterness  that  all  the 
years  of  his  life  would  not  efface.  What  he  saw 
was  not  the  sprightly,  cheery,  capable  woman  who 
had  been  his  mother,  but  a  grey,  trembling  old 
woman,  broken  in  body  and  heart,  who  clung  to 
him  fainting  and  crying  weakly.  What  men  had 
done  to  him,  he  could  shake  off.  They  had  not 
hurt  him.  He  could  still  defy  them.  But  what 
they  had  done  to  his  little  mother,  that  would 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


267 


rankle  and  turn  in  his  heart  forever.  He  would 
never  forgive  them  for  the  things  they  had  done 
to  her  in  these  four  weeks  and  in  these  two  days. 
And  here  at  his  elbow  stood  the  one  person  who 
had  to-day  done  more  to  hurt  his  mother  and  Wm- 
self  than  any  other  in  the  world  could  have  done. 
She  could  have  told  his  mother  weeks  ago,  and 
have  saved  her  all  that  racking  sorrow  and  anxiety. 
But  no,  for  the  sake  of  that  religion  of  hers,  for 
the  sake  of  what  some  priest  told  her,  she  had 
stuck  to  what  had  turned  out  to  be  a  useless  lie, 
to  save  a  dead  man's  name. 

Ruth  stood  there  reaching  out  her  hands  to  him. 
But  he  turned  upon  her  with  a  look  of  savage, 
fleering  contempt;  a  look  that  stunned  the  girl  as 
a  blow  in  the  face  would  have  done.  Then  in  a 
strange,  hard  voice  he  said  brutally : 
"You  lied  I" 

Ruth  dropped  her  eyes  pitifully  under  the  shock 
of  his  look  and  words.  Even  now  she  could  not 
speak,  could  not  appeal  to  his  reason,  could  not 
tell  him  that  she  had  heard  nothing  but  what  had 
come  under  the  awful  seal  of  the  confessional. 
The  secret  was  out.  She  had  risked  his  life  and 
lost  his  love  to  guard  that  secret,  and  now  the 
world  knew  It.  All  the  world  could  talk  freely 
about  what  she  had  done  except  only  herself. 
Even  if  she  could  have  reached  up  and  drawn  his 
head  down  to  her  lips,  even  then  she  could  not  so 
much  as  whisper  into  his  ear  that  he  was  right,  or 


I* 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

lANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No^  2i 


m 


!Ai     1^ 


2.8 


3.2 


2.5 


*        2.2 


m  120 


1.8 


1.4 


1.6 


^    x^PPLIED  liNA^GE 


■6b3 


ast    Mam    S;  eet 


Kochi?5lcr,    Uet,    ro'l 
'  ''()    '•Si  -  0.100  - 


14609       USA 


(■ 


288  -  5989  -  Fox 


M 


m.' 


i     ■;    ,51 


i  ': 


ill! 


n-n.>.] 


i; 


\i 


iiiu 


ifi 


■  ! 


268     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NOkTH 

try  to  tell  him  why  she  had  not  been  able  to 
speak.  She  saw  the  secret  standing  forever  be- 
tween their  two  lives,  unacknowledged,  embitter- 
ing both  those  lives,  yet  impassable  as  the  line  of 
death. 

When  she  looked  up,  he  was  gone  out  to  his 
freedom  in  the  sunlight. 

The  hill  people  were  jammed  about  the  door 
and  in  the  street  as  he  came  out.  Twenty  hands 
reached  forward  to  grasp  him,  to  draw  him  into 
the  midst  of  their  crowd,  to  mount  him  upon  his 
own  horse  which  they  had  caught  wandering  in 
the  high  hills  and  had  brought  down  for  him. 
They  were  happy,  triumphant  and  loud,  for  them 
—  the  hill  people  were  not  much  given  to  noise  or 
demonstration.  But  under  their  triumph  and  their 
noise  there  was  a  current  of  haste  and  anxious  eag- 
erness which  he  was  quick  to  notice. 

During  the  weeks  in  jail,  when  his  own  fate  had 
absorbed  most  of  his  waking  moments,  he  had  let 
slip  from  him  the  thought  of  the  battle  that  yet 
must  be  waged  in  the  hills.  Now,  among  his  peo- 
ple again,  and  once  more  their  unquestioned 
leader,  his  mind  went  back  with  a  click  into  the 
grooves  in  which  it  had  been  working  so  long. 
He  pushed  his  horse  forward  and  led  the  men  at 
a  gallop  over  the  Racquette  bridge  and  out  toward 
the  hills,  the  families  who  had  come  down  from 
the  nearer  hills  in  wagons  stringing  along  behind. 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


269 


When  they  were  well  clear  of  the  town,  he 
halted  and  demanded  the  full  news  of  the  last  four 
weeks. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  while  this  account 
of  these  happenings  has  been  obliged  to  turn  aside 
here  and  there,  following  the  vicissitudes  and  do- 
ings of  individuals,  the  railroad  powers  had  never 
for  a  moment  turned  a  step  aside  from  the  single, 
unemotional  course  upon  which  they  had  set  out. 
Orders  had  gone  out  that  the  railroad  must  get 
title  to  the  strip  of  hill  country  forty  miles  wide 
lying  along  the  right  of  way.     These  orders  must 
be  executed.     The  titles  must  be  gotten.     Failures 
or  successes  here  or  there  were  of  no  account. 
The  incidents  made  use  of  or  the  methods  em- 
ployed were  of  importance  only  as  they  co..:ributed 
to  the  general  result. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  had  blocked  the  plans  once. 
That  was  nothing.  There  were  other  plans. 
The  Shepherd  of  the  North  before  the  Senate 
committee  had  blocked  another  set  of  plans. 
That  was  merely  an  obstacle  to  be  gone  around. 
The  railroad  people  had  gone  around  it  by  procur- 
ing the  burning  of  che  country.  The  people,  left 
homeless  for  the  most  part  and  well-nigh  ruined, 
would  be  glad  now  to  take  anything  they  could 
get  for  their  lands.  There  had  been  no  vindic- 
tiveness,  no  animus  on  the  part  of  the  railroad. 
Its  programme  had  been  as  impersonal  and  de- 


■\r    ! 


'it  V 


[    -f 

I       ;  fj 


1;  I 


270     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

tached  as  the  details  in  any  business  transaction. 
Certain  aims  were  to  be  accomplished.  The 
means  were  purely  incidental. 

Rogers,  whom  the  railroad  had  first  used  as  an 
agent  and  afterwards  as  an  instrument,  was  now 
gone  —  a  broken  tool.  Rafe  Gadbeau,  who  had 
been  Rogers'  assistant,  was  gone  — another  broken 
tool.  The  fire  had  been  used  for  its  purpose. 
The  fire  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  Jeffrey  Whiting 
had  been  put  out  of  the  way  —  definitely,  the  rail- 
road had  hoped.  He  was  now  free  again  to  make 
difficulties.  All  these  things  were  but  changes 
and  moves  and  temporary  checks  in  the  carrying 
through  of  the  business.  In  the  end  the  railroad 
must  attain  its  end. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  saw  all  these  things  as  he  sat 
his  horse  on  the  old  Piercefield  road  and  listened 
to  what  had  been  happening  in  the  hills  during  the 
four  weeks  of  his  removal  from  the  scene. 

The  fire,  because  it  had  seemed  the  end  of  all 
things  to  the  people  of  the  hills,  had  put  out  of 
their  minds  all  thought  of  what  the  railroad  would 
do  next.  Now  they  were  realising  that  the  rail- 
road  had  moved  right  on  about  its  purpose  in  the 
wake  of  the  fire.  It  had  learned  instantly  of  Rog- 
ers'  death  and  had  instantly  set  to  work  to  use  that 
as  a  means  of  removing  Jeffrey  Whiting  from  its 
path.  But  that  was  only  a  side  line  of  activity. 
It  had  gone  right  on  with  its  main  business. 
Other  men  had  been  sent  at  once  into  the  hills  with 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


271 


offers    for   six-month 
which    the    railroad 


what   seemed   like    liberal 
options    on    all    the    lands 
coveted. 

They  had  gotten  hold  of  discouraged  families 
who  had  not  yet  begun  to  rebuild.  The  offer  of 
any  little  money  was  welcome  to  thece.  The 
whole  people  were  disorganised  and  demoralised 
as  a  result  of  the  scattering  which  the  fire  had 
forced  upon  them.  They  were  not  sure  that  it 
was  worth  while  to  rebuild  in  the  hills.  The  fire 
had  burned  through  the  thin  soil  in  many  places 
so  that  the  land  would  be  useless  for  farming  for 
many  years  to  come.  They  had  no  leader,  and 
the  fact  that  Jeffrey  Whiting  was  in  jail  charged 
with  murder,  and,  as  they  heard,  likely  to  be  con- 
victed, forced  upon  them  the  feeling  that  the  rail- 
road  would  win  in  the  end.  Where  was  the  use 
to  struggle  against  an  enemy  they  could  not  see 
and  who  could  not  be  hurt  by  anything  they  might 
do? 

Jeffrey  Whiting  saw  that  the  fight  which  had 
gone  before,  to  keep  the  people  in  line  and  prevent 
them  from  signing  enough  options  to  suit  the  rail- 
road's purpose,  had  been  easy  in  comparison  with 
the  one  that  was  now  before  him.  The  people 
were  disheartened.  They  had  begun  to  fear  the 
mysterious,  unassailable  power  of  the  railroad.  It 
was  an  enemy  of  a  kind  to  which  their  lives  and 
training  had  not  accustomed  them.  It  struck  in 
the  dark,  and  no  man's  hand  could  be  raised  to 


m 


% 


'f  ii.i 


t 


(I.:      •'■ 


^1 


■ 


I  5 

'  1 

iii  I 


272     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

punish.     It  hid  itself  behind  an  illusive  veil  of  law 
and  a  bulwark  of  officials. 

The  people  were  for  the  large  part  still  home- 
less. Many  were  still  down  in  the  villages,  living 
upon  neighbourhood  kindness  and  the  scant  help 
of  public  charity.  Only  the  comparative  few  who 
could  obtain  ready  credit  had  been  able  even  to 
begin  rebuilding.  If  they  were  not  roused  to 
prodigious  efforts  at  once,  the  winter  would  be 
upon  them  before  the  hills  were  resettled.  And 
with  the  coming  of  the  pinch  of  winter  men  would 
be  ready  to  sell  anything  upon  which  they  had  a 
claim,  for  the  mere  privilege  of  living. 

When  they  came  up  into  the  burnt  country,  the 
bitterness  which  had  been  boiling  up  in  his  heart 
through  those  weeks  and  which  he  had  thought 
had  risen  to  its  full  height  during  the  scenes  of  to- 
day now  ran  over  completely.  His  heart  raved 
in  an  agony  of  impotent  anger  and  a  thirst  for  re- 
venge. His  life  had  been  in  danger.  Gladly 
would  he  now  put  it  ten  times  in  danger  for  the 
power  to  strike  one  free,  crushing  blow  at  this  in- 
solent enemy.  He  would  grapple  with  it,  die  with 
it!  only  for  the  power  to  bring  it  to  the  ground 
with  himself! 

The  others  had  become  accustomed  to  the  look 
of  the  country,  but  the  full  desolation  of  it  broke 
upon  his  eyes  now  for  the  first  time.  The  hills 
that  should  have  glowed  in  their  wonderful  rus- 
sets from  the  red  sun  going  down  in  the  west, 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


273 


t1 


were  nothing  but  streaked  ash  heaps,  where  the 
rain  had  run  down  in  gullies.  The  valleys  be- 
tween, where  the  autumn  greens  should  have  run 
deep  and  fresh,  where  snug  homes  should  have 
stood,  where  happy  people  should  now  be  living, 
were  nothing  but  blackened  hollows  of  destitution. 
From  Bald  Mountain,  away  up  on  the  east,  to  far, 
low-lying  Old  Forge  to  the  south,  nothing  but  a 
circle  of  ashes.  Ashes  and  bitterness  in  the 
mouth;  dirt  and  ashes  in  the  eye;  misery  and  the 
food  of  hate  in  the  heart ! 

Very  late  in  the  night  they  came  to  French  Vil- 
lage. The  people  here  were  still  practically  liv- 
ing in  the  barrack  which  the  Bishop  had  seen  built, 
the  women  and  children  sleeping  in  it,  the  men 
finding  what  shelter  they  could  in  the  new  houses 
that  were  going  up.  There  were  enough  of  these 
latter  to  show  that  French  Village  would  live 
again,  for  the  notes  which  the  Bishop  had  en- 
dorsed had  carried  credit  and  good  faith  to  men 
who  were  judges  of  paper  on  which  men's  names 
were  written  and  they  had  brought  back  supplies 
of  all  that  was  strictly  needful. 

Here  was  food  and  water  for  man  and  beast. 
Men  roused  themselves  from  sleep  to  cheer  the 
young  Whiting  and  to  hobble  the  horses  out  and 
feed  them.  And  shrill,  voluminous  women  came 
forth  to  get  food  for  the  men  and  to  wave  hands 
and  skillets  wildly  over  the  story  of  Cynthe 
Cardinal. 


\M% 


.  -ill. 


I 


f  i 


i:f:  "  i. 


'J  !; 


274    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  mention  of  the  girl's  name  brought  things 
back  to  Jeffrey  Whiting.  Till  now  he  had  hardly 
given  a  thought  to  the  girl  who,  by  a  terrible  sac- 
rifice of  the  man  she  loved,  had  saved  him.  He 
owed  that  girl  a  great  deal.  And  the  thought 
brought  to  his  mind  another  girl.  He  struck  him- 
self viciously  across  the  eyes  as  though  he  would 
crush  the  memory,  and  went  out  to  tramp  among 
the  ashes  till  the  dawn.  His  body  had  no  need  of 
rest,  for  the  exercise  he  had  taken  to-day  had 
merely  served  to  throw  off  the  lethargy  of  the  jail; 
and  sleep  was  beyond  him. 

At  the  first  light  he  roused  the  hill  men  and  told 
them  what  the  night  had  told  him.  Unless  they 
struck  one  desperate,  destroying  blow  at  the  rail- 
road, it  would  come  up  mile  by  mile  and  farm  by 
farm  and  take  from  them  the  little  that  was  left 
to  them.  They  had  been  fools  that  they  had  not 
struck  in  the  beginning  when  they  had  first  found 
that  they  were  being  played  falsely.  If  they  had 
begun  to  fight  in  the  early  summer  their  homes 
would  not  have  been  burned  and  they  would  not 
be  now  facing  the  cold  and  hunger  of  an  unshel- 
tered, unprovided  winter. 

Why  had  they  not  struck?  Because  they  were 
afraid?  No.  They  had  not  struck  because  their 
fathers  had  taught  them  a  fear  and  respect  of  the 
law.  They  had  depended  upon  law.  And  here 
was  law  for  them :  the  hills  in  ashes,  their  families 
scattered  and  going  hungry  1 


SEIGNEUR  DIEU 


275 


If  no  man  would  go  with  him,  he  would  ride 
alone  down  to  the  end  of  the  rails  and  sell  his  life 
singly  to  drive  back  the  work  as  far  as  he  could, 
to  rouse  the  hill  people  to  fight  for  themselves  and 
their  own. 

If  ten  men  would  come  with  him  they  could 
drive  back  the  workmen  for  days,  days  in  which 
the  hill  people  would  come  rallying  back  into  the 
hills  to  them.  The  people  were  giving  up  in 
despair  because  nothing  was  being  done.  Show 
them  that  even  ten  men  were  ready  to  fight  for 
them  and  their  rights  and  they  would  come 
trooping  back,  eager  to  fight  and  to  hold  their 
homes.  There  was  yet  wealth  in  the  hills.  If 
the  railroad  was  willing  to  fight  and  to  defy  law 
and  right  to  get  it,  were  there  not  men  in  the 
hills  who  would  fight  for  it  because  it  was  their 
own? 

If  fifty  men  would  come  with  him  they  could 
destroy  the  railroad  clear  down  below  the  line  of 
the  hills  and  put  the  work  back  for  months. 
They  would  have  sheriffs'  posses  out  against  them. 
They  would  have  to  fight  with  hired  fighters  that 
the  railroad  would  bring  up  against  them.  In  the 
end  they  would  perhaps  have  to  fight  the  State 
militia,  but  there  were  men  among  them,  he 
shouted,  who  had  fought  more  than  militia. 
Would  they  not  dare  face  it  now  for  their  homes 
and  their  people  I 

Some  men  would  die.     But  some  men  always 


«- 


}  m 


!!! 


I        =       ,^     -I     i: 


276    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

died,  in  every  cause.  And  in  the  end  the  people 
of  the  whole  State  would  judge  the  cause  I 

Would  one  man  come?  Would  ten?  Would 
fifty? 

Seventy-two  grim,  sullen  men  looked  over  the 
knobs  and  valleys  of  ashes  where  their  homes  had 
been,  took  what  food  the  French  people  could 
spare  them,  and  mounted  silently  behind  him. 

Up  over  the  ashes  of  Leyden  road,  past  the  cel- 
lars of  the  homes  of  many  of  them,  for  half  the 
day  they  rode,  saving  every  strain  they  could  upon 
their  horses.  A  three-hour  rest.  Then  over  the 
southern  divide  and  down  the  slope  they  thundered 
to  strike  the  railroad  at  Leavit's  bridge. 


IX 

THE   COMING  OF  THE   SHEPHERD 


The  wires  coming  down  from  the  north  were 
flashing  the  railroad's  call  for  help.  A  band  of 
madmen  had  struck  the  end  of  the  line  at  Leavit's 
Creek  and  had  destroyed  the  half-finished  bridge. 
They  had  raced  down  the  line,  driving  the  fright- 
ened labourers  before  them,  tearing  up  the  ties  and 
making  huge  fires  of  them  on  which  they  threw 
the  new  rails,  heating  and  twisting  these  beyond 
any  hope  of  future  usefulness. 

Labourers,  foremen  and  engineers  of  construc- 
tion had  fled  literally  for  their  lives.  The  men 
of  the  hills  had  no  quarrel  with  them.  They  pre- 
ferred not  to  injure  them.  But  they  were  in- 
furiated men  with  their  wrongs  fresh  in  mind  and 
with  deadly  hunting  rifles  in  hand.  The  work- 
men on  the  line  needed  no  second  warning.  They 
would  take  no  chances  with  an  enemy  of  this  kind. 
They  were  used  to  violence  and  rioting  in  their  own 
labour  troubles,  but  this  was  different.  This  was 
war.  They  threw  themselves  headlong  upon 
handcars  and  work  engines  and  bolted  down  the 
line,  carrying  panic  before  them. 

In  a  single  night  the  hill  men  with  Jeffrey  Whit- 
ing at  their  head  had  ridden  down  and  destroyed 

277 


(] 


278  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


\i   ^ 


ilu 


'i'|;! 


IM 


li 


nearly  twenty  miles  of  very  costly  construction 
work.  There  were  yet  thirty  miles  of  the  line  left 
in  the  hills  and  if  the  men  were  not  stopped  they 
would  not  leave  a  single  rail  in  all  the  hill  country 
where  they  were  masters. 

The  call  of  the  railroad  was  at  first  frantic  with 
panic  and  fright.  That  was  while  little  men  who 
had  lost  their  wits  were  nominally  in  charge  of  a 
situation  in  which  nobody  knew  what  to  do. 
Then  suddenly  the  tone  of  the  railroad's  call 
changed.  Big  men,  used  to  meeting  all  sorts  of 
things  quickly  and  efficiently,  had  taken  hold. 
They  had  the  telegraph  lines  of  the  State  in  their 
hands.  There  was  no  more  frightened  appeal. 
Orders  were  snapped  over  the  wires  to  sheriffs  in 
Adirondack  and  Tupper  and  Alexander  counties. 
They  were  told  to  swear  in  as  many  deputies  as 
they  could  lead.  They  were  to  forget  the  consid- 
eration of  expense.  The  railroad  would  pay  and 
feed  the  men.  They  were  to  think  of  nothing  but 
to  get  the  greatest  possible  number  of  fighting  men 
upon  the  line  at  once. 

Then  a  single  great  man,  a  man  who  sat  in  a 
great  office  building  in  New  York  and  held  his 
hand  upon  every  activity  in  the  State,  saw  the  grav- 
ity of  the  business  in  the  hills  and  put  himself  to 
work  upon  it.  He  took  no  half  measures.  He 
had  no  faith  in  little  local  authorities,  who  would 
be  bound  to  sympathise  somewhat  with  the  hill 
people  in  this  battle. 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     279 

He  called  the  Governor  of  the  State  from  Al- 
bany to  his  office.  He  ordered  the  Governor  to 
turn  out  the  State's  armed  forces  and  set  them  in 
motion  toward  the  hills.  He  wondered  auto- 
cratically that  the  Governor  had  not  had  the  sense 
to  do  this  of  himself.  The  Governor  bridled  and 
hesitated.  The  Governor  had  been  living  on  the 
fiction  that  he  was  the  executive  head  of  the  State. 
It  took  Clifford  W.  Stanton  just  three  minutes  to 
disabuse  him  completely  and  forever  of  this  illu- 
sion. He  explained  to  him  just  why  he  was  Gov- 
ernor and  by  whose  permission.  Also  he  pointed 
out  that  the  permission  of  the  great  railroad  sys- 
tem that  covered  the  State  would  again  be  neces- 
sary in  order  that  Governor  Foster  might  succeed 
himself.  Then  the  great  man  sent  Wilbur  Fos- 
ter back  to  Albany  to  order  out  the  nearest  regi- 
ment of  the  National  Guard  for  service  in  the  hills. 

Before  the  second  night  three  companies  of  the 
militia  had  passed  through  Utica  and  had  gone  up 
the  line  of  the  U.  &  M.  Their  orders  were  to 
avoid  killing  where  possible  and  to  capture  all  of 
the  hill  men  that  they  could.  The  railroad  wished 
to  have  them  tried  and  imprisoned  by  the  impartial 
law  of  the  land.  For  it  was  chaiacteristic  of  the 
great  power  which  in  those  days  ruled  the  State 
that  when  it  had  outraged  every  sense  of  fair  play 
and  common  humanity  to  attain  its  ends  it  was  then 
ready  to  spend  much  money  creating  public  opinion 
in  favour  of  itself. 


Ik 


28o  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


■   • 

I":  i 


Jeffrey  Whiting  stood  in  the  evening  in  the 
cover  of  the  woods  above  Milton's  Crossing  and 
watched  a  train  load  of  soldiers  on  flat  cars  come 
creeping  up  the  grade  from  the  south.  This  was 
the  last  of  the  hills.  He  had  refused  to  let  his 
men  go  farther.  Behind  him  lay  fifty  miles  of 
new  railroad  in  ruins.  Before  him  lay  the  open, 
settled  country.  His  men,  once  the  fever  of  de- 
struction had  begun  to  run  in  their  blood,  had 
wished  to  sweep  on  down  into  the  viMages  and 
carry  their  work  through  them.  But  he  had  stood 
firm.  This  was  their  own  country  where  they  be- 
longed and  where  the  railroad  was  the  interloper. 
Here  they  were  at  home.  Here  there  was  a  cer- 
tain measure  of  safety  for  them  even  in  the  de- 
structive and  lawless  work  that  they  had  begun. 
They  had  done  enough.  They  had  pushed  the 
railroad  back  to  the  edge  of  the  hills.  They  had 
roused  the  men  of  the  hills  behind  them.  Where 
he  had  started  with  his  seventy-two  friends,  there 
were  now  three  hundred  well-armed  men  in  the 
woods  around  him.  Here  in  their  cover  they 
could  hold  the  line  of  the  railroad  indefinitely 
against  almost  any  force  that  might  be  sent  against 
them. 

But  the  inevitable  sobering  sense  of  leadership 
and  responsibility  was  already  at  work  upon  him. 
The  burning,  rankling  anger  that  had  driven  him 
onward  so  that  he  had  carried  everything  and 
everybody  near  him  into  this  business  of  destruc- 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    281 


tion  was  now  dulled  down  to  a  slow,  dull  hate  that 
while  it  had  lost  nothing  of  its  bitterness  yet  gave 
him  time  to  think.  Those  men  coming  up  there 
on  the  cars  were  not  professional  soldiers,  paid 
to  fight  wherever  there  was  fighting  to  be  done. 
Neither  did  they  care  anything  for  the  railroad 
that  they  should  come  up  here  to  fight  for  it. 
Why  did  they  come  ? 

They  had  joined  their  organisation  for  various 
reasons  that  usually  had  very  little  to  do  with  fight- 
ing. They  were  clerks  and  office  men,  for  the 
most  part,  from  the  villages  and  factories  of  the 
central  part  of  the  State.  The  militia  companies 
had  attracted  them  because  the  armouries  in  the 
towns  had  social  advantages  to  offer,  because  uni- 
forms and  parade  appeal  to  all  boys,  because  they 
were  sons  of  veterans  and  the  military  tradition 
was  strong  in  them.  Jeffrey  Whiting's  strong 
natural  sense  told  him  the  substance  of  these 
things.  He  could  not  regard  these  boys  as  deadly 
enemies  to  be  shot  down  without  mercy  or  warn- 
ing. They  had  taken  their  arms  at  a  word  of  com- 
mand and  had  come  up  here  to  uphold  the  arm  of 
the  State.  If  the  railroad  was  able  to  control  the 
politics  of  the  State  and  so  was  able  to  send  these 
boys  up  here  on  its  own  business,  then  other  people 
were  to  blame  for  the  situation.  Certainly  these 
boys,  coming  up  here  to  do  nothing  but  what  their 
duty  to  the  State  compelled  them  to  do ;  they  were 
not  to  be  blamed. 


t  :, 


282  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

His  men  were  now  urging  him  to  withdraw  a 
little  distance  into  the  hills  to  where  the  bed  of  the 
road  ran  through  a  defile  between  two  hills.     The 
soldiers  would  no  doubt  advance  directly  up  the 
line  of  what  had  been  the  railroad,  covering  the 
workmen  and  engineers  who  would  be  coming  on 
behind  them.     If  they  were  allowed  to  go  on  up 
into  the  defile  without  warning  or  opposition  they 
could  be  shot  down  by  the  hill  men  from  almost  ab- 
solute safety.     If  he  had  been  dealing  with  a  hated 
enemy  Jeffrey  Whiting  perhaps  could  have  agreed 
to  that.     But  to  shoot  down  from  ambush  these 
boys,  who  had  come  up  here  many  of  them  prob- 
ably thinking  they  were  coming  to  a  sort  of  picnic 
or  outing  in  the  September  woods,  was  a  thing 
which  he  could  not  contemplate.     Before  he  would 
attack  them  these  boys  must  know  just  what  they 
were  to  expect. 

He  saw  them  leave  the  cars  at  the  end  of  the 
broken  line  and  take  up  their  march  in  a  rough 
column  of  fours  along  the  roadbed.  He  was  sur- 
prised and  puzzled.  He  had  expected  them  to 
work  along  the  line  only  as  fast  as  the  men  re- 
paired the  rails  behind  them.  He  had  not  thought 
that  they  would  go  away  from  their  cars. 

Then  he  understood.  They  were  not  coming 
merely  to  protect  the  rebuilding  of  the  railroad. 
They  had  their  orders  to  come  straight  into  the 
hills,  to  attack  and  capture  him  and  his  men.  The 
railroad  was  not  only  able  to  call  the  State  to  pro- 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    283 

tect  itself.  It  had  called  upon  the  State  to  avenge 
its  wrongs,  to  exterminate  its  enemies.  His  men 
had  understood  this  better  than  he.  Probably 
they  were  right.  This  thing  might  as  well  be 
fought  out  from  the  first.  In  the  end  there  would 
be  no  quarter.  They  could  defeat  this  handful  of 
troops  and  drive  them  back  out  of  the  hills  with 
an  ease  that  would  be  almost  ridiculous.  But  that 
would  not  be  the  end. 

The  State  would  send  other  men,  unlimited 
numbers  of  them,  for  it  must  and  would  uphold 
the  authority  of  its  law.  Jeffrey  Whiting  did 
not  deceive  himself.  Probably  he  had  not  from 
the  beginning  had  any  doubt  as  to  what  would  be 
the  outcome  of  this  raid  upon  the  railroad.  The 
railroad  itself  had  broken  the  law  of  the  State 
and  the  law  of  humanity.  It  had  defied  every 
principle  of  justice  and  common  decency.  It  had 
burned  the  homes  of  law-supporting,  good  men  in 
the  hills.  Yet  the  law  had  not  raised  a  hand  to 
punish  it.  But  now  when  the  railroad  itself  had 
suffered,  the  whole  might  of  the  State  was  ready  to 
be  set  in  motion  to  punish  the  men  of  the  hills 
who  had  merely  paid  their  debt. 

But  Jeffrey  Whiting  could  not  say  to  himself 
that  he  had  not  foreseen  all  this  from  the  outset. 
Those  days  of  thinking  in  jail  had  given  him  an 
insight  into  realities  that  years  of  growth  and  ob- 
servation of  things  outside  might  not  have  pro- 
duced in  him.     He  had  been  given  time  to  see  that 


111 


I  •{ 


l^'^ii 


!       I' 


1 


f 
i 


284    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

some  things  are  insurmountable,  that  things  may 
be  wrong  and  unsound  and  utterly  unjust  and  still 
persist  and  go  on  indefinitely.  Youth  does  not 
readily  admit  this.  Jeffrey  Whiting  had  recog- 
nised it  as  a  fact.  And  yet,  knowing  this,  he  had 
led  these  men,  his  friends,  men  who  trusted  him, 
upon  this  mad  raid.  They  had  come  without  the 
clear  vision  of  the  end  which  he  now  realised  had 
been  his  from  the  start.  They  had  thought  that 
they  could  accomplish  something,  that  they  had 
some  chance  of  winning  a  victory  over  the  rail- 
road. They  had  believed  that  the  power  of  the 
State  would  intervene  to  settle  the  differences  be- 
tween them  and  their  enemy.  Jeffrey  Whiting 
knew,  must  have  known  all  along,  that  the  moment 
a  tie  was  torn  up  on  the  railroad  the  whole  strength 
of  the  State  would  be  put  forth  to  capture  these 
men  and  punish  them.  There  would  be  no  com- 
promise. There  would  be  no  bargaining.  If 
they  surrendered  and  gave  themselves  up  now  they 
would  be  jailed  for  varying  terms.  If  they  did 
not,  if  they  stayed  here  and  fought,  some  of  them 
would  be  killed  and  injured  and  in  one  way  or  an- 
other all  would  suffer  in  the  end. 

He  had  done  them  a  cruel  wrong.  The  truth 
of  this  struck  him  with  startling  clearness  now. 
He  had  led  them  into  this  without  letting  them  see 
the  full  extent  of  what  they  were  doing,  as  he  must 
have  seen  it. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.     If  they  dis- 


1  ' 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     285 

persed  now  and  scattered  themselves  through  the 
hills  few  of  them  would  ever  be  identified.  And 
if  he  went  down  and  surrendered  alone  the  rail- 
road would  be  almost  satisfied  with  punishing  him. 
It  was  the  one  just  and  right  thing  to  do. 

He  went  swiftly  among  the  men  where  they 
stood  among  the  trees,  waiting  with  poised  rifics 
for  the  word  to  fire  upon  the  advancing  soldiers, 
and  told  them  what  they  must  do.  He  had  de- 
ceived them.  He  had  not  told  them  the  whole 
truth  as  he  himself  knew  it.  They  must  leave  at 
once,  scattering  up  among  the  hills  and  keeping 
close  mouths  as  to  where  they  had  been  and  what 
they  had  done.  He  would  go  down  and  give  him- 
self up,  for  if  the  railroad  people  once  had  him  in 
custody  they  would  not  bother  so  very  much  about 
bringing  the  others  to  punishment. 

His  men  looked  at  him  in  a  sort  of  puzzled  won- 
der. They  did  not  understand,  unless  it  might  be 
that  he  had  suddenly  gone  crazy.  There  was  an 
enemy  marching  up  the  line  toward  them,  bent 
upon  killing  or  capturing  them.  They  turned 
from  him  and  without  a  spoken  word,  without  a 
signal  of  any  sort,  loosed  a  rifle  volley  across  the 
front  of  the  oncoming  troops.  The  battle  was 
on! 

The  volley  had  been  fired  by  men  who  were  ac- 
customed to  shoot  deer  and  foxes  from  distances 
greater  than  this.  The  first  two  ranks  of  the 
soldiers  fell  as  if  they  had  been  cut  down  with 


3 


i 


i, 


liii 


286    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

scythes.  Not  one  of  them  was  hit  above  the 
knees.  The  firing  stopped  suddenly  as  it  had  be- 
gun. The  hill  men  had  given  a  terse,  emphatic 
warning.  It  was  as  though  they  had  marked  a 
dead  line  beyond  which  there  must  be  no  advance. 

These  soldiers  had  never  before  been  shot  at. 
The  very  restraint  which  the  hill  men  had  shown 
in  not  killing  any  of  them  in  that  volley  proved 
to  the  soldiers  even  in  their  fright  and  surprise 
how  deadly  was  the  aim  and  the  judgment  of  the 
invisible  enemy  somewhere  in  the  woods  there  be- 
fore them.  To  their  credit,  they  did  not  drop 
their  arms  or  run.  They  stood  stunned  and 
paralysed,  as  much  by  the  suddenness  with  which 
the  firing  had  ceased  as  by  the  surprise  of  its  be- 
ginning. 

Their  officers  ran  forward,  shouting  the  super- 
fluous command  for  them  to  halt,  and  ordering 
them  to  carry  the  wounded  men  back  to  the  cars. 
For  a  moment  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  they 
would  again  advance  or  would  put  themselves  into 
some  kind  of  defence  formation  and  hold  the 
ground  on  which  they  stood. 

Jeffrey  Whiting,  looking  beyond  them,  saw  two 
other  trains  come  slowly  creeping  up  the  line. 
From  the  second  train  he  saw  men  leaping  down 
who  did  not  take  up  any  sort  of  military  forma- 
tion. These  he  knew  were  sheriffs'  posses,  fight- 
ing men  sworn  in  because  they  were  known  to  be 
fighters.     They  were  natural  man  hunters  who  de- 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    287 

lighted  in  the  chase  of  the  human  animal.  He  had 
often  seen  them  in  the  hills  on  the  hunt,  and  he 
knew  that  they  were  an  enemy  of  a  character  far 
different  from  those  harmless  boys  who  could  not 
hit  a  mark  smaller  than  the  side  of  a  hill.  These 
men  would  follow  doggedly,  persistently  into  the 
highest  of  the  hills,  saving  themselves,  but  never 
letting  the  prey  slip  from  their  sight,  dividing  the 
hill  men,  separating  them,  cornering  them  until 
they  should  have  tracked  them  down  one  by  one 
and  either  captured  or  killed  them  all. 

These  men  did  not  attempt  to  advance  along  the 
line  of  the  road.  They  stepped  quickly  out  into 
the  undergrowth  and  began  spreading  a  thin  line 
of  men  to  either  side. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  third  train,  although  they 
were  soldiers,  took  their  lesson  from  the  men  who 
had  just  preceded  them.  They  left  the  tracks 
and  spreading  still  farther  out  took  up  the  wings 
of  a  long  line  that  was  now  stretching  east  to  west 
along  the  fringe  of  the  hills.  The  soldiers  in  the 
centre  retired  a  little  way  down  the  roadbed,  stood 
bunched  together  for  a  little  time  while  their  offi- 
cers evidently  conferred  together,  then  left  the 
road  by  twos  and  fours  and  began  spreading  out 
and  pushing  the  other  lines  out  still  farther.  It 
was  perfect  and  systematic  work,  he  agreed,  that 
could  not  have  been  better  done  if  he  and  his  com- 
panions had  planned  it  for  their  own  capture. 

There  were  easily  eight  hundred  men  there  in 


if 


!(;  !  .r 


1  ',     ■  1          > 

i 

•'» 

j 

il::^^ 


illiiiii 


288     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

front,  he  judged ;  men  well  armed  •  nd  ready  for 
an  indefinite  stay  in  the  hills,  with  a  railroad  at 
their  back  to  bring  up  supplies,  and  with  the  entire 
State  behind  them.  And  the  State  was  ready  to 
send  more  and  more  men  after  these  if  it  should  be 
necessary.  He  had  no  doubt  that  hundreds  of 
other  men  were  being  held  in  readiness  to  follow 
these  or  were  perhaps  already  on  their  way.  He 
saw  the  end. 

Those  lines  would  sweep  up  slowly,  remorse- 
lessly and  surround  his  men.  If  they  stood  to- 
gether they  would  be  massacred.  If  they  separ- 
ated they  would  be  hunted  down  one  by  one. 

Their  only  chance  was  to  scatter  at  once  and 
ride  back  to  where  their  homes  had  been.  This 
time  he  implored  them  to  take  their  chance, 
begged  them  to  save  themselves  while  they  could. 
But  he  might  have  known  that  they  would  do  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  Already  they  were  breaking 
away  and  spreading  out  to  meet  that  distending 
line  in  front  of  them.  Nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
could  now  save  them  from  annihilation,  and 
Jeffrey  Whiting  was  not  expecting  a  miracle. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  take  com- 
mand and  sell  his  life  along  with  theirs  as  dearly 
as  possible. 

The  echoes  of  the  outbreak  in  the  hills  ran  up 
and  down  the  State.  Men  who  had  followed  the 
course  of  things  through  the  past  months,  men  who 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     289 

knew  the  spoken  story  of  the  fire  in  the  hills  which 
no  newspaper  had  dared  to  print  openly,  under- 
stood just  what  it  meant.  The  men  up  there  had 
been  goaded  to  desperation  at  last.  But  wise  men 
agreed  quietly  with  each  other  that  they  had  done 
the  very  worst  thing  that  could  have  been  done. 
The  injury  they  had  done  the  railroad  would 
amount  to  very  little,  comparatively,  in  the  end, 
while  it  would  give  the  railroad  an  absolutely  free 
hand  from  now  on.  The  people  would  be  driven 
forever  out  of  the  lands  which  the  railroad  wished 
to  possess.  There  would  be  no  legislative  hin- 
drances now.  The  people  had  doomed  them- 
selves. 

The  echoes  reached  also  to  two  million  other 
men  throughout  the  State  who  did  not  understand 
the  matter  in  the  least.  These  looked  up  a  mo- 
ment from  the  work  of  living  and  earning  a  living 
to  sympathise  vaguely  with  the  foolish  men  up 
there  in  the  hills  who  had  attacked  the  sacred  and 
awful  rights  of  railroad  property.  It  was  too  bad. 
Maybe  there  were  some  rights  somewhere  in  the 
case.  But  who  could  tell  ?  And  the  two  million, 
the  rulers  and  sovereigns  of  the  State,  went  back 
again  to  their  business. 

The  echo  came  to  Joseph  Winthrop,  Bishop  of 
Alden,  almost  before  a  blow  had  been  struck.  It 
is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  he  was  listening  for 
it.  He  knew  his  people,  kindly,  lagging  of  speech, 
i-Iow  to  anger;  but,  once  past  a  certain  point  of 


^!       ■•  H 


%■ 


mM  1 

a| 

4JtHtr- 

290    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

aggravation,  absolutely  heedless  and  reckless  of 
consequences. 

He  did  not  stop  to  compute  just  how  much  he 
himself  was  bound  up  in  the  causes  and  conse- 
quences of  what  had  happened  and  what  was  hap- 
pening in  the  hills.  He  had  given  advice.  He 
had  thought  with  the  people  and  only  for  the 
people. 

He  saw,  long  before  it  was  told  him  in  words, 
the  wild  ride  down  through  the  hills  to  strike  the 
railroad,  the  fury  of  destruction,  the  gathering 
of  the  forces  of  the  State  to  punish. 

Here  was  no  time  for  self-examination  or  self- 
judgment.  Wherein  Joseph  Winthrop  had  done 
well,  or  had  failed,  or  had  done  wrong,  was  of  no 
moment  now. 

One  man  there  was  in  all  the  State,  in  all  the 
nation,  who  could  give  the  word  that  would  now 
save  the  people  of  the  hills.  Clifford  W.  Stanton 
who  had  sat  months  ago  in  his  office  in  New  York 
and  had  set  all  these  things  going,  whose  ruthless 
hand  was  to  be  recognised  in  every  act  of  those 
which  had  driven  the  people  to  this  madness,  his 
will  and  his  alone  could  stay  the  storm  that  was 
now  raging  in  the  hills. 

Once  the  Bishop  had  seen  that  man  do  an  act 
of  supreme  and  unselfish  bravery.  It  was  an  act 
of  both  physical  and  moral  courage  the  like  of 
which  the  Bishop  had  never  witnessed.     It  was 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     291 


an  act  which  had  revealed  in  Clifford  W.  Stanton 
a  depth  of  strong  fineness  that  no  man  would  have 
suspected.  It  was  done  in  the  dim,  dead  time  of 
faraway  youth,  but  the  Bishop  had  not  forgotten. 
And  he  knew  that  men  do  not  rise  to  such  heights 
without  having  very  deep  in  them  the  nobility  to 
make  it  possible  and  at  times  inevitable  that  they 
should  rise  to  those  heights. 

After  these  years  and  the  encrusting  strata  of 
compromise  and  cowardice  and  selfishness  wKich 
years  and  life  lay  upun  the  fresh  heart  of  the  youth 
of  men,  could  that  depth  of  nobility  in  the  soul  of 
Clifford  W.  Stanton  again  be  touched? 

Almost  before  the  forces  of  '  State  were  in 
motion  against  the  people  of  the  .  Is,  the  Bishop, 
early  of  a  morning,  walked  into  the  office  of  Clif- 
ford Stanton. 

Stanton  was  a  smaller  man  than  the  Bishop,  and 
though  younger  than  the  latter  by  some  half-dozen 
years,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  burned  up  the  fuel 
of  life  more  rapidly.  Where  the  Bishop  looked 
and  spoke  and  moved  with  the  deliberate  fixity  of 
the  settling  years,  Stanton  acted  with  a  quick  ner- 
vousness that  shook  just  a  perceptible  little.  The 
spiritual  strength  of  restraint  and  inward  thinking 
which  had  chiselled  the  Bishop's  face  into  a  single, 
simple  expression  of  will  power  was  not  to  be 
found  in  the  other's  face.  In  its  stead  there  was 
a  certain  steel-trap  impression,  as  though  the  man 


11 


•J:  • 


292     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

behind  the  face  had  all  his  life  refused  to  be  certain 
of  anything  until  the  jaws  of  the  trap  had  set  upon 
the  accomplished  fact. 

Physically  the  two  men  were  much  of  a  type. 
You  would  have  known  them  anywhere  for  New 
Englanders  of  the  generation  that  has  disappeared 
almost  completely  in  the  last  twenty  years.  They 
had  been  boys  at  Harvard  together,  though  not  of 
the  same  class.  They  had  been  together  in  the 
Civil  War,  though  the  nature  of  their  services  had 
been  infinitely  diverse.  They  had  met  here  and 
there  casually  and  incidentally  in  the  business  of 
life.  But  they  faced  each  other  now  virtually  as 
strangers,  and  with  a  certain  tightening  grip  upon 
himself  each  man  realised  that  he  was  about  to 
grapple  with  one  of  the  strongest  willed  men  that 
he  had  ever  met,  and  that  he  must  test  out  the 
other  man  to  the  depths  and  be  himself  tried  out 
to  the  limit  of  his  strength. 

"  It  is  some  years  since  I've  seen  you,  Bishop. 
But  we  are  both  busy  men.  And  —  well  — 
You  know  I  am  glad  to  have  you  come  to  see  me. 
I  need  not  tell  you  that." 

The  Bishop  accepted  the  other  man's  frank 
courtesy  and  took  a  chair  quietly.  Stanton 
watched  him  carefully.  The  Bishop  was  showing 
the  last  few  years  a  good  deal,  he  thought.  In 
reality  it  was  the  last  month  that  the  Bishop  was 
showing.     But  it  did  not  show  in  the  steady,  un- 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     293 

troubled  glow  of  his  :yes.  The  Bishop  wasted  no 
time  on  preliminaries. 

*'  I  have  come  on  business,  of  course,  Mr. 
Stanton,"  he  began.  '*  It  is  a  very  strange  and 
unusual  business.  And  to  come  at  it  rightly  I 
must  tell  you  a  story.  At  the  end  of  the  story  I 
will  ask  you  a  question.  That  will  be  my  whole 
business." 

The  other  man  said  nothing.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand  and  he  never  spoke  until  he  was  sure  that 
he  understood.  The  Bishop  plunged  into  liis 
St: 

"  Jne  January  day  in  *  Sixty-five '  I  was  going 
up  the  Shenandoah  alone.  My  command  had  left 
me  behind  for  two  days  of  hospital  service  at  Cross 
Keys.  They  were  probably  some  twenty  miles 
ahead  of  me  and  would  be  crossing  over  the  divide 
towards  Five  Forks  and  the  east.  I  thought  I 
knew  a  way  by  which  I  could  cut  off  a  good  part  of 
the  distance  that  separated  me  from  them,  so  I 
started  across  the  Ridge  by  a  path  which  would 
have  been  impossible  for  troops  in  order. 

"  I  was  right.  I  did  cut  off  the  distance  which 
I  had  expected  and  came  down  in  the  early  after- 
noon upon  a  good  road  that  ran  up  the  eastern  side 
of  the  Ridge.  I  was  just  congratulating  myself 
that  I  would  be  with  my  men  before  dark,  when 
a  troop  of  Confederate  cavalry  came  pelting  over 
a  rise  in  the  road  behind  me. 


il,  I 


tm 


■J! 


lit, 


lilii 


II 


294    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  I  leaped  my  horse  back  into  the  brush  at  the 
side  of  the  road  and  waited.  They  would  sweep 
on  past  and  allow  me  to  go  on  my  way.  Behind 
them  came  a  troop  of  our  own  horse  pursuing 
hotly.  The  Confederate  horses  were  well  spent. 
I  saw  that  the  end  of  the  pursuit  was  not  far  off. 
The  Confederates  —  some  detached  band  of 
Early's  men,  I  imagine  —  realised  that  they  would 
soon  be  run  down.  Just  where  I  had  left  the  road 
there  was  a  sharp  turn.  Here  the  Confederates 
threw  themselves  from  their  horses  and  drew 
themselves  across  the  road.  They  were  in  perfect 
ambush,  for  they  could  be  seen  scarcely  fifteen 
yards  back  on  the  narrow  road. 

*'  I  broke  from  the  bush  and  fled  back  along  the 
road  to  warn  our  men.  But  I  did  no  good. 
They  were  beyond  all  stopping,  or  hearing  even, 
as  they  came  yelling  around  the  turn  of  the 
road. 

"  For  three  minutes  there  was  some  of  the 
sharpest  fighting  I  ever  saw,  there  in  the  narrow 
road,  before  what  remained  of  the  Confederates 
broke  after  their  horses  and  made  off  again.  In 
the  very  middle  of  the  fight  I  noticed  two  young 
officers.  One  was  a  captain,  the  other  a  lieu- 
tenant. I  knew  them.  I  knew  their  story.  I 
believe  I  was  the  only  man  living  who  knew  that 
Gtory.  Probably  /  did  not  know  the  whole  of 
that  story. 

"  The    lieutenant   had    maligned   the    captain. 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    295 

He  had  said  of  him  the  one  thing  that  a  soldier 
may  not  say  of  another.  They  had  fought  once. 
Why  they  had  been  kept  in  the  same  command  I 
do  not  know. 

"  Now  in  the  very  hottest  of  this  fight,  with- 
out apparently  the  slightest  warning,  the.  lieu- 
tenant threw  himself  upon  the  captain,  attacking 
him  viciously  with  his  sword.  For  a  moment 
they  struggled  there,  unnoticed  in  the  dust  of  the 
conflict.  Then  the  captain,  swinging  free,  struck 
the  lieutenant's  sword  from  his  hand.  The  latter 
drew  his  pistol  and  fired,  point  blank.  It 
missed.  By  what  miracle  I  do  not  know.  All 
this  time  the  captain  had  held  his  sword  poised  to 
lunge,  within  easy  striking  distance  of  the  other's 
throat.  But  he  had  made  no  attempt  to  thrust. 
As  the  pistol  missed  I  saw  him  stiffen  his  arm  to 
strike.  Instead  he  looked  a  long  moment  into 
the  lieutenant's  eyes.  The  latter  was  screaming 
what  were  evidently  taunts  into  his  face.  The 
captain  dropped  his  arm,  wheeled,  and  plunged  at 
the  now  breaking  line  of  Confederates. 

"  I  have  seen  brave  men  kill  bravely.  I  have 
seen  brave  men  bravely  refrain  from  killing. 
That  was  the  bravest  thing  I  ever  saw." 

Clifford  Stanton  sat  staring  directly  in  front  of 
him.  He  gave  no  sign  of  hearing.  He  was  liv- 
ing over  for  himself  that  scene  on  a  lonely,  for- 
gotten Virginia  road.  At  last  he  said  as  to  him- 
self: 


m 


■ 

'|! 

'     'i      '       . 

■   ' 

.  i"  ■;   ■' 

(    I. 


■Wliijm 


296    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"The  lieutenant  died,  a  soldier's  death,  the 
next  day." 

"  I  knew,"  said  the  Bishop  quietly.  "  My 
question  is:  Are  you  the  same  brave  man  with 
a  soldier's  brave,  great  heart  that  you  were  that 
day?" 

For  a  long  time  Clifford  Stanton  sat  staring 
directly  at  something  that  was  not  in  the  visible 
world.  The  question  had  sprung  upon  him  out 
of  the  dead  past.  What  right  had  this  man,  what 
right  had  any  man  to  face  him  with  it? 

He  wheeled  savagely  upon  the  Bishop : 

*'  You  sat  by  the  roadside  and  got  a  glimpse  of 
the  tragedy  of  my  life  as  it  whirled  by  you  on 
the  road !  How  dare  you  come  here  lO  tell  me  the 
little  bit  of  it  you  saw?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  Bishop  swiftly,  "  you  have 
forgotten  how  great  and  brave  a  man  you  are." 

Stanton  stared  uncomprehendingly  at  him.  He 
was  stirred  to  the  depths  of  feelings  that  he  had 
not  known  for  years.  But  even  in  his  emotion 
and  bewilderment  the  steel  trap  of  silence  set 
upon  his  face.  His  lifetime  of  never  speaking 
until  he  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say  kept  him 
waiting  to  hear  more.  It  was  not  any  conscious 
caution;  it  was  merely  the  instinct  of  self-defence. 

"  For  months,"  the  Bishop  was  going  on 
quietly,  "  the  people  of  my  hills  have  been  har- 
assed by  you  in  your  unfair  efforts  to  get  pos- 
session of  the  lands  upon  which  their  fathers  built 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    297 

their  homes.  You  have  tried  to  cheat  them. 
You  have  sent  men  to  lie  to  theL  .  You  tried  to 
debauch  a  legislature  in  your  attempt  to  over- 
come them.  I  have  here  in  my  pocket  the  sworn 
confessions  of  two  men  who  stood  in  the  shadow 
of  death  and  said  that  they  had  been  sent  to  burn 
a  whole  countryside  that  you  and  your  associates 
coveted  —  to  burn  the  people  in  their  homes  like 
the  meadow  birds  in  their  nests.  I  can  trace  that 
act  to  within  two  men  of  you.  And  I  can  sit  here, 
Clifford  Stanton,  and  look  you  in  the  eye  man  to 
man  and  tell  you  that  I  know  you  gave  the  sug- 
gestion. And  you  cannot  look  back  and  deny  it. 
I  cannot  take  you  into  a  court  of  law  in  this  State 
and  prove  it.  We  both  know  the  futility  of  talk- 
ing of  that.  But  I  can  take  you,  I  do  take  you 
this  minute  into  the  court  of  your  own  heart  — 
where  I  know  a  brave  man  lives  —  and  convict 
you  of  this  thing.  You  know  it.  I  know  it.  If 
the  whole  world  stood  here  accusing  you  would 
we  know  it  any  the  better? 

"  Now  my  people  have  made  a  terrible  mistake. 
They  have  taken  the  law  into  their  own  hands  and 
have  thought  to  punish  you  themselves.  They 
have  done  wrong,  they  have  done  foolishly. 
Who  can  punish  you  ?  You  have  power  above  the 
law.  Your  interests  are  above  the  courts  of  the 
land.  They  did  not  understand.  They  did  not 
know  you.  They  have  been  misled.  They  have 
listened  to  men  like  me  preaching:     '  Right  shall 


H1 


ii 


i 


l-.l 


;    I 


:iPi?|?rf 


298     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

prevail:  Justice  shall  conquer.'  And  where 
does  right  prevail?  And  when  shall  justice  con- 
quer? No  doubt  you  have  said  these  phrases 
yourself.  Because  your  fathers  and  my  fathers 
taught  us  to  say  them.  But  are  they  true  ?  Does 
justice  conquer?  Does  right  prevail?  You  can 
say.  I  ask  you,  vho  have  the  answer  in  your 
power.  Does  right  prevail?  Then  give  my 
stricken  people  what  is  theirs.  Does  justice  con- 
quer?    Then  see  that  they  come  to  no  harm. 

"  I  dare  to  put  this  thing  raw  to  yo'  face  be- 
cause I  know  the  man  that  once  lived  within  you. 
I  saw  you  — !  " 

"  Don't  harp  on  that,"  Stanton  cut  in  viciously. 
"  You  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  do  harp  on  that.  I  have  come  here  to 
harp  on  that.  Do  you  think  that  if  I  had  not 
with  my  eyes  seen  that  thing  I  would  have  come 
near  you  at  all?  No.  I  would  have  branded 
you  before  all  men  for  the  thing  that  you  have 
done.  I  would  have  given  these  confessions 
which  I  hold  to  the  world.  I  would  have  de- 
nounced you  as  far  as  tongue  and  pen  would  go 
to  every  man  who  through  four  years  gave  blood 
at  your  side.  I  would  have  braved  the  rebuke 
of  my  superiors  and  maybe  the  discipline  of  my 
Church  to  bring  upon  you  the  hard  thoughts  of 
men.  I  would  have  made  your  name  hated  in 
the  ears  of  little  children.  But  I  woi'ld  not  have 
come  to  you. 


91  I'i 

KS 

II 

i 

1 

■        .ii- 

COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD     299 

"  If  I  had  not  seen  that  thing  I  would  not  have 
come  to  you,  for  I  would  have  said:  What 
good?  The  man  is  a  coward  without  a  heart. 
A  coward,  do  you  remember  that  word?" 

The  man  groaned  and  struck  out  with  his  hand 
as  though  to  drive  away  a  ghastly  thing  that  would 
leap  upon  him. 

"A  coward  without  a  heart,"  the  Bishop  re- 
peated remorselessly,  "  who  has  men  and  women 
and  children  in  his  power  and  who,  because  he  has 
no  heart,  can  use  his  power  to  crush  them. 

"  If  I  had  not  seen,  I  would  have  said  that. 

"  But  I  saw.  I  saw.  And  I  have  come  here 
to  ask  you :  Are  you  the  same  brave  man  with  a 
heart  that  I  saw  on  that  day  ? 

"  You  shall  not  evade  me.  Do  you  think  you 
can  put  me  off  with  defences  and  puling  argu- 
ments of  necessity,  or  policy,  or  the  sacrcdness  of 
property?  No.  You  and  I  are  here  looking  at 
naked  truth.  I  will  go  down  into  your  very  soul 
and  have  it  out  by  the  roots,  the  naked  truth. 
But  I  will  have  my  answer.  Are  you  that  same 
man? 

"  If  you  are  not  that  same  man;  if  you  have 
killed  that  in  you  which  gave  life  to  that  man; 
if  that  man  no  longer  lives  in  you;  if  you  are  not 
capable  of  being  that  same  man  with  the  heart 
of  a  great  and  tender  hero,  then  tell  me  and  I 
will  go.  But  you  shall  answer  me.  I  will  have 
my  answer." 


u    ! 


'^•■v 


\    i  H. 


Ir:,  ■  ; 


i  1 


■ii^i    i 


^iiii 


300    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Clifford  Stanton  rose  heavily  from  his  chair 
and  stood  trembling  as  though  in  an  overpower- 
ing rage,  and  visibly  struggling  for  his  command 
of  mind  and  tongue. 

"  Words,  words,  words,"  he  groaned  at  last. 
"  Your  life  is  made  of  words.  Words  are  your 
coin.     What  do  you  know? 

"  Do  you  think  that  words  can  go  down  into 
my  soul  to  find  the  man  that  was  once  there?  Do 
you  think  that  words  can  call  him  up?  When 
did  words  ever  mean  anything  to  a  man's  real 
heart !  You  come  here  with  your  question.  It's 
made  of  words. 

"When  did  men  ever  do  anything  for  words? 
Honour  is  a  word.  Truth  is  a  word.  Bravery 
is  a  word.  Loyalty  is  a  word.  Hero  is  a  word. 
Do  you  think  men  do  things  for  words?  Nol 
What  do  you  know  ?     What  could  you  know  ? 

"  Men  do  things  and  you  call  them  by  words. 
But  do  they  do  them  for  the  words?     No! 

"They  do  them —  Because  some  woman 
lives,  or  once  lived!     What  do  you  know? 

"Go  out  there.  Stay  there."  He  pointed. 
"  I've  got  to  think." 

He  fell  brokenly  into  his  chair  and  lay  against 
his  desk.     The  Bishop  rose  and  walked  from  the 

room. 

When  he  heard  the  door  close,  the  man  got  up 
and  going  to  the  dt  )r  barred  it. 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    301 

He  came  back  and  sat  awhile,  his  head  leaning 
heavily  upon  his  propped  hands. 

He  opened  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  looked 
at  a  smooth,  glinting  black  and  steel  thing  that 
lay  there.  Then  he  shut  the  drawer  with  a  bang 
that  went  out  to  the  Bishop  listening  in  the 
outer  office.  It  was  a  sinister,  suggestive  noise, 
and  for  an  instant  it  chilled  that  good  man's 
heart.  But  his  ears  were  sharp  and  true  and  he 
knew  immediately  that  he  had  been  mistaken. 

Stanton  pulled  out  another  drawer,  unlocked 
a  smaller  compartment  within  it,  and  from  the 
latter  took  a  small  gold-framed  picture.  He  set 
it  up  on  the  desk  between  his  hands  and  looked 
long  at  it,  questioning  the  face  in  the  frame  with 
a  tender,  diffident  expression  of  a  wonder  that 
never  ceased,  of  a  longing  never  to  be  stilled. 

The  face  that  looked  out  of  the  picture  was 
one  of  a  quiet,  translucent  beauty.  At  first 
glance  the  face  had  none  of  the  striking  features 
that  men  associate  with  great  beauty.  But  be- 
hind the  eyes  there  seemed  to  glow,  and  to  grow 
gradually,  and  softly  stronger,  a  light,  as  though 
diffused  within  an  alabaster  vase,  that  slowly  radi- 
ated from  the  whole  countenance  an  impression  of 
indescribable,  gentle  loveliness. 

Clifford  Stanton  had  often  wondered  what  was 
that  light  from  within.  He  wondered  now,  and 
questioned.     Never  before  had  that  light  seemed 


t^lf  '■' 


i   |: 


iiirii 


302  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

so  wonderful  and  so  real.  Now  there  came  to 
him  an  answer.  An  answer  that  shook  him,  for 
it  was  the  last  answer  he  would  have  expected. 
The  light  within  was  truth  —  truth.  It  seemed 
that  in  a  world  of  sham  and  illusions  and  evasions 
this  one  woman  had  understood,  had  lived  with 
truth. 

The  man  laughed.  A  low,  mirthless,  dry 
laugh  that  was  nearer  to  a  sob. 

"  Was  that  it,  Lucy?  "  he  queried.  "  Truth? 
Then  let  us  have  a  little  truth,  for  once !  I'll  tell 
you  some  truth ! 

"  I  lied  a  while  ago.  He  did  not  die  a  sol- 
dier's death.  I  told  the  same  lie  to  you  long  ago. 
Words.  Words.  And  yet  you  went  to  Heaven 
happy  because  I  lied  to  you  and  kept  on  lying  to 
you.  Words*  And  yet  you  died  a  happy  woman, 
because  of  that  lie. 

"  He  lied  to  you.  He  took  you  from  me  with 
lies.  Words.  Lies.  And  yet  they  made  you 
happy.     Where  is  truth? 

"  You  lived  happy  and  died  happy  with  a  lie. 
Because  I  lied  like  what  they  call  a  man  and  a 
gentleman.     Truth!" 

He  loo'^ed  searchlngly,  wonderingly  at  the  face 
before  him.  Did  he  expect  to  see  the  light  fade 
out,  to  see  the  face  wither  under  the  bitter  revela- 
tion? 

"  I've  been  everything,"  he  went  on,  still  try- 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    303 

ing  to  make  his  point,  "  I've  done  everything, 
that  men  say  I've  been  and  done.     Why? 

"  Well—  Why?  "  he  asked  sharply.  "  Did 
it  make  any  difference? 

*'  Hard,  grasping,  tricky,  men  call  me  that  to  my 
face  —  sometimes.  Well  —  Why  not  ?  Does 
it  make  any  difference?  Did  it  make  any  differ- 
ence with  you?  If  I  had  thought  it  would  — 
But  it  didn't.  Lies,  trickery,  words!  They 
served  with  you.  They  made  you  happy. 
Truth!  " 

But  as  he  looked  into  the  face  and  the  smil- 
ing light  of  truth  persisted  in  it,  there  came  over 
his  soul  the  dawn  of  a  wonder.  And  the  dawn 
glowed  within  him,  so  that  it  came  to  his  eyes  and 
looked  out  wondering  at  a  world  remade. 

"Is  it  true,  Lucy?"  he  asked  gently.  "Can 
that  be  truth,  at  last?  Is  that  what  you  mean? 
Did  you,  deep  down,  somewhere  beneath  words 
and  beneath  thoughts,  did  you,  did  you  really  un- 
derstand —  a  little  ?  And  do  you,  somewhere, 
understand  now? 

"Then  tell  me.  Was  it  worth  the  lies? 
Down  underneath,  when  you  understood,  which 
was  the  truth?  The  thing  I  did  —  which  men 
would  call  fine?     Or  was  it  the  words? 

"Is  that  it?  Is  that  the  truth,  Lucy?  Was 
it  the  fine  thing  that  was  really  the  truth,  and 
did  you,  do  you,  know  it,  after  all?     Is  there 


1 

If 

il 

it 

'ij 

'  f  1 

♦  f' 

if. 
''■t 

11! 


I;> 


U[l 


304     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

truth  that  lives  deep  dv""wn,  and  did  you,  who  were 
made  of  truth,  did  you  somehow  understand  all 
the  time?" 

He  sat  awhile,  wondering,  questioning;  finally 
believing.     Then  he  said : 

"  Lucy,  a  man  out  there  wants  his  answer.  I 
will  not  speak  it  to  him.  But  I'll  say  it  to  you: 
Yes,  I  am  that  same  man  who  once  did  what  they 
call  a  fine,  brave  thing.  I  didn't  do  it  because 
it  was  a  great  thing,  a  brave  thing.  I  did  it  for 
you. 

"  And  —  I'll  do  this  for  you." 

He  looked  again  at  the  face  in  the  picture,  as 
if  to  make  sure.  Then  he  locked  it  away  quickly 
in  its  place. 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  drew  a  pad 
abruptly  to  him  and  began  writing.  He  wrote 
two  telegrams,  one  to  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
the  other  to  the  Sheriff  of  Tupper  County.  Then 
he  took  another  pad  and  wrote  a  note,  this  to  his 
personal  representative  who  was  following  the 
state  troops  into  the  hills. 

He  rose  and  walked  briskly  to  the  door. 
Throwing  it  open  he  called  a  clerk  and  gave  him 
the  two  telegrams.  He  held  the  note  in  his  hand 
and  asked  the  Bishop  back  into  the  office. 

Closing  the  door  quickly,  he  said  without 
preface : 

"  This  note  will  put  my  man  up  there  at  your 
service.     You  will  prefer  to  go  up  into  the  hills 


itP  i 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    305 

yourself,  I  think.  The  officers  In  command  of  the 
troops  will  know  that  you  are  empowered  to  act 
for  all  parties.  The  Governor  will  have  seen  to 
that  before  you  get  there,  I  think.  There  will 
be  no  attempt  at  prosecutions,  now  or  afterwards. 
I'ou  can  settle  the  whole  matter  in  no  time. 

"  We  will  not  buy  the  land,  but  we'll  give  a 
fair  rental,  based  on  what  ores  we  find  to  take 
out.  You  can  give  your  word  —  mine  wouldn't 
go  for  much  up  there,  I  guess,"  he  put  in  grimly 
— "  that  it  will  be  fair.  You  can  make  that  the 
basis  of  settlement. 

"  They  can  go  back  and  rebuild.  I  will  help, 
where  it  will  do  the  most  good.  Our  operations 
won't  interfere  much  with  their  farm  land,  I  find. 

"  You  will  want  to  start  at  once.  That  is  all, 
I  guess.  Bishop,"  he  concluded  abruptly. 

The  Bishop  reached  for  the  smaller  man's  hand 
and  wrung  it  with  a  sudden,  unwonted  emotion. 

"  I  will  no<-  cheapen  this,  sir,"  he  said  evenly, 
*'  by  attempting  to  thank  you." 

"  A  mere  whim  of  mine,  that's  all,"  Stanton 
cut  in  almost  curtly,  the  steel-trap  expression  snap- 
ping into  place  over  his  face.     "  A  mere  whim." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Bishop  slowly,  looking  him 
squarely  in  the  eyes,  "  I  only  came  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, anyhow."  Then  he  turned  and  walked 
briskly  from  the  office.  He  had  no  right  and  no 
wish  to  know  what  the  other  man  chose  to  con- 
ceal beneath  that  curt  and  incisive  manner. 


U   r  , 


4!'  V   'i 


ill  I 


306     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

So  these  two  men  parted.  In  words,  they  had 

not  understood  each  other.  Neither  had  come 

near  the  depths  of  the  other.  But  then,  what  man 

does  ever  let  another  man  see  what  is  in  his 
heart? 

All  day  long  the  line  of  armed  men  had  gone 
spreading  itself  wider  and  wider,  to  draw  itself 
around  the  edges  of  the  shorter  line  of  men  hid- 
den in  the  protecting  fringe  of  the  hills.  All  day 
long  clearly  and  more  clearly  Jeffrey  Whiting 
had  been  seeing  the  inevitable  end.  His  line  was 
already  stretched  almost  to  the  breaking  point. 
If  the  enemy  had  known,  there  were  dangerous 
gaps  in  it  now  through  which  a  few  daring  men 
might  have  pushed  and  have  begun  to  divide  up 
the  strength  of  the  men  with  hlrn. 

All  the  afternoon  as  he  watched  he  saw  other 
and  yet  other  groups  and  troops  of  men  come 
up  the  railroad,  detrain  and  push  out  ever 
farther  upon  the  enveloping  wings  to  east  and 

west. 

Twice  during  the  afternoon  the  ends  of  his  line 
had  been  driven  in  and  almost  surrounded. 
They  had  decided  in  the  beginning  to  leave  their 
horses  in  the  rear,  and  so  use  them  only  at  the 
last.  But  the  spreading  line  in  front  had  become 
too  long  to  be  covered  on  foot  by  the  few  men  he 
had.  They  were  forced  to  use  the  speed  of  the 
animals  to  make  a  show  of  greater  force  than 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEI'llERD    307 

they  really  ha  J.     The  horses  furnished  marks  that 
even  the  soldiers  could  occasionally  hit.     All  the 
afternoon  long,  and  far  into  the  night,  the  screams 
of  terrified,  wounded  horses  rang  horribly  through 
the  woods  above  the  pattering  crackle  of  the  ir- 
regular rifle  fire.     Old  men  who  years  before  had 
learned  to  sleep  among  such  sounds  lay  down  and 
fell  asleep  grumbling.     Young  men  and  boys  who 
had  never  heard  such  sounds  turned  sick  with  hor- 
ror  or  wandered   frightened  through  the  dark, 
nervously  ready  to  fire  on  any  moving  twig  or 
scraping  branch. 

In  the  night  Jeffrey  Whiting  went  along  the 
line,  talking  aside  to  every  man;  telling  them  to 
slip  quietly  away  through  the  dark.  They  could 
make  their  way  out  through  the  loose  lines  of 
sodiers  and  sheriffs'  men  and  get  down  to  the  vil- 
lages where  they  would  be  unknown  and  where 
nobody  would  bother  with  them. 

The  inevitable  few  took  his  word  —  There  is 
always  the  inevitable  few.  They  slipped  away 
one  by  one,  each  man  telling  himself  a  perfectly 
good  reason  for  going,  several  good  reasons,  in 
fact;  any  reason,  indeed,  but  that  they  were  afraid. 
Most  of  them  were  gathered  in  by  the  soldier 
pickets  and  sent  down  to  jail.  ^ 

Morning  came,  a  grey,  lowering  morning  with 
a  grim,  ugly  suggestion  in  it  of  the  coming  win- 
ter. Jeffrey  Whiting  and  his  men  drew  wearily 
out  to  their  posts,  munching  dryly  at  t  .^  last  of 


I 


'Hlf 

w4 


;■■  t 


308  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

the  stores  which  they  had  taken  from  the  con- 
struction depots  along  the  line  which  they  had  de- 
stroyed. This  was  the  end.  It  was  not  far  from 
the  mind  of  each  man  that  this  would  probably  be 
his  last  meal. 

The  firing  began  again  as  the  outer  line  came 
creeping  in  upon  them.  They  had  still  the  great 
advantage  of  the  shelter  of  the  woods  and  the 
formation  of  the  soldiers,  while  their  marksman- 
ship kept  those  directly  in  front  of  them  almost 
out  of  range.  But  there  was  nothing  in  sight  be- 
fore them  but  that  they  would  certainly  all  be  sur- 
rounded and  shot  down  or  taken. 

Suddenly  the  fire  from  below  ceased.  Those 
who  had  been  watching  the  most  distant  of  the 
two  wings  creeping  around  them  saw  these  men 
halt  and  slowly  begin  to  gather  back  together. 
What  was  it?  Were  they  going  to  rush  at  last? 
Here  would  be  a  fight  in  earnest! 

But  the  soldiers,  still  keeping  their  spread  for- 
mation, merely  walked  back  in  their  tracks  until 
they  were  entirely  out  of  range.  It  must  be  a 
ruse  of  some  sort.  The  hill  men  stuck  to  their 
shelter,  puzzled,  but  determined  not  to  be  drawn 
out. 

Jeffrey  Whiting,  watching  near  the  iiiddle  of 
the  line,  saw  an  old  man  walking,  barehead,  up 
over  the  lines  of  half-burnt  ties  and  twisted 
rails.  That  white  head  with  thf  '  -;h,  wide  brow, 
the  slightly  stooping,  spare  she  /  ^ers,  the  long, 


:.»   I; 


COMING  OF  THE  SHEPHERD    309 

swinging  walk—     That  was  the  Bishop  of  Al- 

den! 

fefirey  Whiti  ig  dropped  his  gun  and,  yelhng  to 
th.  n>':n  on  either  side  to  stay  where  they  were, 
jun.ped  down  into  the  roadbed  and  ran  to  meet  the 

Bishop. 

"Are  any  men  killed?"  the  Bishop  asked  be- 
fore Jeffrey  had  time  to  speak  as  they  met. 

"Old  Erskine  Beasley  was  shot  through  the 
chest  —  we  don't  know  how  bad  it  is,"  said 
Jeffrey,  stopping  short.  "Ten  other  men  are 
wounded.     I  don't  think  any  of  them  are  bad." 

"  Call  in  your  men,"  said  the  Bishop  briefly. 
"  The  soldiers  are  going  back." 

At  Jeffrey's  call  the  men  came  running  from 
all  sides  as  he  and  the  Bishop  reached  the  line. 
Haggard,  ragged,  powder-grimed  they  gathered 
round,  staring  in  dull  unbelief  at  this  new  appear- 
ance  of  the  White  Horse  Chaplain,  for  so  one 
and  all  they  knew  and  remembered  him.  Men 
who  had  seen  him  years  ago  at  Fort  Fisher  slipped 
back  into  the  scene  of  that  day  and  looked  about 
blankly  for  the  white  horse.  And  young  men  who 
had  heard  that  tale  many  times  and  had  seen  and 
heard  of  his  coming  through  the  fire  to  French 
Village  stared  round-eyed  at  him.  What  did  this 
coming  mean? 

He  told  them  shortly  the  terms  that  Clifford 
W.  Stanton,  their  enemy,  was  willing  to  make  with 
them.     And  in  the  end  he  added: 


M 


U:.  •  '^: 


!■       ■    ,  I 


1     !■ 


310    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  You  have  only  my  word  that  these  things  will 
be  done  as  I  say.  /  believe.  If  you  believe,  you 
will  take  your  horses  and  get  back  to  your  families 
at  once." 

Then,  in  the  weakness  and  reaction  of  relief, 
the  men  for  the  first  time  knew  what  they  had 
been  through.  Their  knees  gave  under  them. 
They  tried  to  cheer,  but  could  raise  only  a  croak- 
ing quaver.  Many  who  had  thought  never  to  see 
loved  ones  again  burst  out  sobbing  and  crying 
over  the  names  of  those  they  were  saved  to. 

The  Bishop,  taking  Jeffrey  Whiting  with  him, 
walked  slowly  back  down  the  roadbed.  Sud- 
denly Jeffrey  remembered  something  that  had  gone 
completely  out  of  his  mind  in  these  last  hours. 

"  Bishop,"  he  stammered,  "  that  day  —  that 
day  in  court.  I  —  I  said  you  lied.  Now  I  know 
you  didn't.     You  told  the  truth,  of  course." 

"  My  boy,"  said  the  Bishop  queerly,  "  yester- 
day I  asked  a  man,  on  his  soul,  for  the  truth  — 
the  truth.     I  got  no  answer. 

"  But  I  remembered  that  Pontius  Pilate,  in  the 
name  of  the  Emperor  of  all  the  World,  once 
asked  what  was  truth.  And  he  got  no  answer. 
Once,  at  least,  in  our  lives  we  have  to  learn  that 
there  are  things  bigger  than  we  are.  We  get  no 
answer." 

Jeffrey  inquired  no  more  for  truth  that  day. 


X 


THAT  THEY   BE    NOT   AFRAID 

It  was  morning  in  the  hills;  morning  and  Spring 
and  the  bud  of  Promise. 

The  snow  had  been  gone  from  the  sunny  places 
for  three  weeks  now.  He  still  lingered  three  feet 
deep  on  the  crown  of  Bald  Mountain,  from  which 
only  the  hot  June  sun  and  the  warm  rains  would 
drive  him.  He  still  held  fastnesses  on  the  north- 
erly side  of  high  hills,  where  the  sun  could  not 
come  at  him  and  only  the  trickling  rain-wash 
running  down  the  hill  could  eat  him  out  from 
underneath.  But  the  sun  had  chased  him  away 
from  the  open  places  and  had  beckoned  lovingly  to 
the  grass  and  the  germinant  life  beneath  to  come 
boldly  forth,  for  the  enemy  was  gone. 

But  the  grass  was  timid.  And  the  hardy  little 
wild  flowers,  the  forget-me-nots  and  the  little 
wild  pansies  held  back  fearfully.  Even  the 
bold  dandelions,  the  hobble-de-hoys  and  torn-boys 
of  meadow  and  hill,  peeped  out  with  a  wary  cir- 
cumspection that  belied  their  natuie.  For  all  of 
them  had  been  burned  to  the  very  roots  of  the 
roots.     But  the  sun  came  warmer,  more  insistent, 

311 


.    I, 


!     ■ 


■,     ! 


i    i! 


k 


312     THE  SHEPHERD  OF  TI    .  NORTH 

and  kissed  the  scarred,  brown  body  of  earth  and 
warmed  it.  Life  stirred  within.  The  grass  and 
the  little  flowers  took  courage  out  of  their  very 
craving  for  life  and  pushed  resolutely  forth. 
And,  lo!  The  miracle  was  accomplished!  The 
world  was  born  again ! 

Cynthe  Cardinal  was  coming  up  Beaver  Run 

on  her  way  back  to  French  Village.     She  had  been 

to  put  the  first  flowers  of  the  Spring  on  the  grave 

of    Rafe   Gadbeau,   where    Father    Ponfret   had 

blessed  the  ground  for  him  and  they  had  laid  him, 

there  under  the  sunny  side  of  the  Gaunt  Rocks 

that  had  given  him  his  last  breathing  space  that 

he  might  die  in  peace.     They  had  put  him  here, 

for  there  was  no  way  in  that  time  to  carry  him 

to  the  little  cemetery  in   French  Village.     And 

Cynthe  was  well  satisfied  that  it  was  so.     Here, 

under  the  Gaunt  Rocks,  she  would  not  have  to 

share  him  with  any  one.     And  she  would  not  have 

to  hear  people  pointing  out  the  grave  to  each  other 

and  to  see  them  staring. 

The  water  tumbling  down  the  Run  out  of  the 
hills  sang  a  glad,  uproarious  song,  as  is  the  way 
of  all  brooks  at  their  beginnings,  concerning  the 
necessity  of  getting  down  as  swiftly  as  possible 
to  the  big,  wide  life  of  the  sea.  The  sea  would 
not  care  at  all  if  that  brook  never  came  down  to 
it.  But  the  brook  did  not  know  that.  Would  not 
have  believed  it  if  it  had  been  told. 

And  Cynthe  hummed  herself,  a  sad  little  song 


'     :     I 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     313 

of  old  Beaupre  —  which  she  had  never  seen,  for 
Cynthe  was  born  here  in  the  hills.  Cynthe  was 
sad,  beyond  doubt;  for  here  was  the  mating  time, 
and—  But  Cynthe  was  not  unhappy.  The 
Good  God  was  still  in  his  1  ieaven,  and  still  good. 
Life  beckoned.  The  breath  of  air  was  sweet. 
There  was  work  in  the  world  to  do.  And  — 
when  all  was  said  and  done  —  Rafe  Gadbeau  was 
in  Heaven. 

As  she  left  the  Run  and  was  crossing  up  to 
the  divide  she  met  Jeffrey  Whiting  coming  down. 
He  had  been  over  in  the  Wilbur's  Fork  country 
and  was  returning  home.  He  stopped  and 
showed  that  he  was  anxious  to  talk  with  her. 
Cynthe  was  not  averse.  She  was  ever  a  chatty, 
sociable  little  person,  and,  besides,  for  some  time 
slie  had  had  it  in  mind  that  she  would  some  day 
take  occasion  to  say  a  few  pertinent  things  to  this 
scowling  young  gentleman  with  the  big  face. 

"  You're  with  Ruth  Lansing  a  lot,  aren't  you?  " 
he  said,  after  some  verbal  beating  about  the  bush; 
"how  is  she?" 

"  Why  don't  you  come  see,  if  you  want  to 
know  ?  "  retorted  Cynthe  sharply. 

Jeffrey  had  no  ready  answer.     So  Cynthe  went 

on: 

"If  you  wanted  to  know  why  didn't  you  come 
up  all  Winter  and  see?  Why  didn't  you  come 
up  when  she  was  nursing  the  dirty  French  bnbies 
through   the   black  diphtheria,   when   their   own 


m% 


w 


1   '  i 


m 


314    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

mothers  were  afraid  of  them?  Why  didn't  you 
come  see  when  she  was  helping  the  mothers  up 
there  to  get  into  their  houses  and  make  the  houses 
warm  before  the  coming  of  the  Winter,  though 
she  had  no  house  of  her  own?  Why  didn't  you 
come  see  when  she  nearly  got  her  death  from 
the  'mmonia  caring  for  old  Robbideau  Laclair 
in  his  house  that  had  no  roof  on  it,  till  she  shamed 
the  lazy  men  to  go  and  fix  that  roof?  Did  you 
ask    somebody    then?     Why    didn't    you    come 

see  r 

"Well,"  Jeffrey  defended,  "I  didn't  know 
about  any  of  those  things.  And  we  had  plenty 
to  do  here  —  our  place  and  my  mother  and  all. 
I  didn't  see  her  at  all  till  Easter  Sunday.  I 
sneaked  up  to  your  church,  just  to  get  a  look  at 
her.     She  saw  me.     But  she  didn't  seem  to  want 

to. 

"  But  she  should  have  been  delighted  to  see 
you,"  Cynthe  snapped  back.  "  Don't  you  think 
so?  Certainly,  she  should  have  been  overjoyed. 
She  should  have  flown  to  your  armsl  Net  so? 
You  remember  what  you  said  to  her  the  last  time 
you  saw  her  before  that.  No?  I  will  tell  you. 
You  called  her  '  liar  '  before  the  whole  court,  even 
the  Judge!  Of  one  certainty,  she  should  have 
flown  to  you.     No?  " 

Now  if  Jeffrey  had  been  wise  he  would  have 
gone  away,  with  all  haste.  But  he  was  not  wis°. 
He  was  sore.     He   felt  ill-used.     He  was  sure 


THAT  THKY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     3^5 

that  some  of  this  was  unjust.     He  foolishly  stayed 

to  argue. 

"  But  she  —  she  cared  for  me,"  he  blurted  out. 
"  I  know  she  did.  I  couldn't  understand  why  she 
couldn't  tell  — the  truth;  when  you  — you  did  so 

much  for  me." 

"  For  you?  For  you!"  the  girl  flamed  up  m 
his  face.  Oh,  villainous  monster  of  vanity  1  For 
you!  Ha!  I  could  laugh!  For  you!  I  put 
mon  Rafe  —  dead  in  his  grave  —  to  shame  be- 
fore all  the  world,  called  him  murderer,  blackened 
his  name,  for  you! 

"No!     No!     No!    Never! 

"  I  would  not  have  said  a  word  against  him  to 
save  you  from  the  death.     Never! 

"  I  did  what  I  did,  because  there  was  a  debt. 
A  debt  which  mon  Rafe  had  forgotten  to  pay. 
He  was  waiting  outside  of  Heaven  for  me  to  pay 
that  debt.  I  paid.  I  paid.  His  way  was  made 
straight.     He  could  go  in.     I  did  it  for  you! 

Ha!" 

The  theology  of  this  was  beyond  Jeffrey.  And 
the  girl  had  talked  so  rapidly  and  so  fiercely  that 
he  could  not  gather  even  the  context  of  the  mat- 
ter. He  gave  up  trying  to  follow  it  and  went  back 
to  his  main  argument. 

"  But  why  couldn't  she  have  told  the  truth? 

"  The  truth,  eh !  You  must  have  the  truth ! 
The  girl  must  tell  the  truth  for  you!  No  mat- 
ter if  she  was  to  blacken  her  soul  before  God, 


M 


'I 


-■f 


£»»,Xli 


i 


m 


ij 


316  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

you  must  have  the  truth  told  for  you.  The  truth ! 
It  was  not  enough  for  you  to  know  that  thj 
girl  loved  you,  with  her  heart,  with  her  Ufe,  that 
she  would  have  died  for  you  if  she  might!  No. 
The  poor  girl  must  tear  out  the  secret  lining  of  her 
heart  for  you,  to  save  you ! 

"  Think  you  that  if  mon  Rafe  was  alive  and 
stood  there  where  you  stood,  in  peril  of  his  life; 
think  you  that  he  would  ask  me  to  give  up  the 
secret  of  the  Holy  Confession  to  save  him.  Non! 
Mon  Rafe  was  a  man!  He  would  die,  telling  me 
to  keep  that  which  God  had  trusted  me  with ! 

"  Name  of  a  Woodchuck!  Who  were  you  to 
be  saved;  that  the  Good  God  must  come  down 
from  His  Heaven  to  break  the  Seal  of  the  Un- 
opened Book  for  you! 

"  You  ask  for  truth!     Tiens!     I  will  tell  you 

truth ! 

"  You  sat  in  the  place  of  the  prisoner  and  cried 
that  you  were  an  innocent  man.  Mon  Rafe  was 
the  guilty  man.  The  whole  world  must  come 
forth,  the  secrets  of  the  grave  must  come  forth 
to  declare  you  innocent  and  him  guilty!  You 
were  innocent!  You  were  persecuted!  The 
earth  and  the  Heaven  must  come  to  show  that  you 
were  innocent  and  he  was  guilty!  Bah!  You 
were  as  guilty  as  he! 

"  I  was  there.  I  saw.  Your  finger  was  on 
the  trigger.     You  only  waited  for  the  man  to  stop 


i 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     317 

moving.  Murder  was  in  your  heart.  Murder 
was  in  your  soul.  Murder  was  in  your  finger. 
But  you  were  innocent  and  mon  Rafe  was  guilty. 
By  how  much? 

"  By  one  second.  That  was  the  difference  be- 
tween mon  Rafe  and  you.  Just  that  second  that 
he  shot  before  you  were  ready.  That  was  the 
difference  between  you  the  innocent  man  and  mon 

Rafe! 

"  You  were  guilty.  In  your  heart  you  were 
guilty.  In  your  soul  you  were  guilty.  M'sieur 
Cain  himself  was  not  more  guilty  than  you! 

"  You  were  more  guilty  than  mon  Rafe,  for  he 
had  suffered  more  from  that  man.  He  was 
hunted.  He  was  desperate,  crazy!  You  were 
cool.  You  were  ready.  Only  mon  Rafe  was  a 
little  quicker,  because  he  was  desperate.  Before 
the  Good  God  you  were  more  guilty. 

"  And  mon  Rafe  must  be  blackened  more  than 
thr  fire  had  blackened  his  poor  body.  And  the 
poor  Ruth  must  break  the  Holy  Secret.  And  the 
good  M'sieur  the  Bishop  must  break  his  holiest 
oath.  All  to  make  you  innocent! 
"Bah!     Innocent!" 

She  flung  away  from  him  and  ran  up  the  hill. 
Cynthe  had  not  said  quite  all  that  she  intended  to 
say  to  this  young  gentleman.  But  then,  also,  she 
had  said  a  good  deal  more  than  she  had  in- 
tended to  say.     So  it  was  about  even.     She  had 


3i8  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


^r' 


i!-        ♦   ': 
■i  I   i 


said  enough.  And  !i'  would  do  him  no  harm. 
She  had  felt  that  she  owed  mon  Rafe  a  little  plain 
speaking.     She  was  much  relieved. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  stk  od  where  she  had  left  him 
digging  up  the  tender  roots  of  the  new  grass  with 
his  toe.  He  did  not  look  after  the  girl.  He  had 
forgotten  her. 

He  felt  no  resentment  at  the  things  that  she  had 
said.  He  did  not  argue  with  himself  as  to 
whether  these  things  were  just  or  unjust.  Of  all 
the  things  that  she  had  said  only  one  thing  mat- 
tered. And  that  not  because  she  had  said  it.  It 
mattered  because  it  was  true.  The  quick,  jabbing 
sentences  from  the  girl  had  driven  home  to  him 
just  one  thing. 

Guilty?  He  was  guilty.  He  was  as  guilty  as 
—  Rafe  Gadbeau. 

Provocation?  Yes,  he  had  had  provocation, 
bitter,  blinding  provocation.  But  so  had  Rafe 
Gadbeau :  and  he  had  never  thought  of  Rafe  Gad- 
beau  as  anything  but  guilty  of  murder. 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  down  the 
Run  with  swift,  swinging  strides,  fighting  this  con- 
viction that  was  settling  upon  him.  He  fought  it 
viciously,  with  contempt,  arguing  that  he  was  a 
man,  that  the  thing  was  done  and  past,  that  men 
have  no  time  for  remorse  and  sickish,  mawkish 
repentance.  Those  things  were  for  brooding 
women,  and  Frenchmen.  He  fought  it  reason- 
ably, sagaciously;  contending  tliat  he  had  not,  in 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     319 

fact,  pulled  the  trigger.  I  low  did  he  know  that 
he  would  ever  have  done  so?  Maybe  he  had  not 
really  intended  to  kill  at  all.  Maybe  he  would  not 
have  killed.  The  man  might  have  spoken  to  him. 
Perhaps  he  was  going  to  speak  when  he  turned 
that  time.  Who  could  tell?  Ten  thousand 
things  might  have  happened,  any  one  of  which 
would  have  stood  between  him  and  killing  the  man. 
He  fought  it  defiantly.  Suppose  he  had  killed  the 
man?  What  about  it?  The  man  deserved  it. 
He  had  a  right  to  kill  him. 

But  he  knew  that  he  was  losing  at  every  angle 
of  the  fight.  For  the  conviction  answered  not  a 
word  to  any  of  these  things.  It  merely  fastened 
itself  upon  his  spirit  and  stuck  to  the  original  in- 
dictment: "As  guilty  as  Rafe  Gadbeau." 

And  when  he  came  over  the  top  of  the  hill, 
from  where  he  could  look  down  upon  the  grave  of 
Rafe  Gadbeau  there  under  the  Gaunt  Rocks,  the 
conviction  pointed  out  to  him  just  one  enduring 
fact.  It  said:  "There  is  the  grave  of  Rafe 
Gadbeau ;  as  long  as  memory  lives  to  say  anything 
about  that  grave  it  will  say :  a  murderer  was  buried 
here." 

Then  he  fought  no  more  with  the  conviction. 
It  gripped  his  spirit  and  cowed  him.  It  sat  upon 
his  shoulders  and  rode  home  with  him.  His 
mother  saw  it  in  his  face,  and,  not  understanding, 
began  to  look  for  some  fresh  trouble. 

She  need  not  have  looked  for  new  trouble,  so 


i  1  i 


Vii-         i 


^f'H'iii'ihs 


MMm 


320    THE  SHEPHFRD  OF  THE  NORTH 

far  as  concerned  things  outside  himself.  For 
Jeffrey  was  doing  very  well  in  the  world  of  men. 
He  had  gotten  the  home  rebuilt,  a  more  com- 
fortable and  finer  home  than  it  had  ever  been. 
He  had  secured  an  excellent  contract  from  the  rail- 
road to  supply  thousands  of  ties  out  of  the  tim- 
ber of  the  high  hills.  He  had  made  money  out 
of  that.  And  once  he  had  gotten  a  taste  of  money- 
making,  in  a  business  that  was  his  by  the  traditions 
of  his  people  and  his  own  liking,  he  knew  that  he 
had  found  himself  a  career. 

He  was  working  now  on  a  far  bigger  project, 
the  reforesting  of  thirty  thousand  acres  of  the 
higher  hill  country.  In  time  there  would  be  un- 
limited money  in  that.  But  there  was  more  than 
money  in  it.  It  was  a  game  and  a  life  which  he 
knew  and  which  he  loved.  To  make  money  by 
making  things  more  abundant,  by  covering  the 
naked  peaks  of  the  hill  country  with  sturdy,  grow- 
ing timber,  that  was  a  thing  that  appealed  to  him. 

All  the  Winter  nights  he  had  spent  learning  the 
things  that  men  had  done  in  Germany  and  else- 
where in  this  direction,  and  in  adding  this  knowl- 
edge to  what  he  knew  could  be  done  here  in  the 
hills.  Already  he  knew  it  was  being  said  that 
he  was  a  young  fellow  who  knew  more  about  grow- 
ing timber  than  any  two  old  men  in  the  hills. 
And  he  knew  how  much  this  meant,  coming  from 
among  a  people  who  are  not  prone  to  give  youth 
more  than  its  due.     Already  he  was  beinp^  picked 


'in 


"^Wi'-W^WVW.'^ 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     321 

as  an  expert.  Next  week  he  was  going  down  to 
Albany  to  give  answers  to  a  legislative  committee 
for  the  Poorest  Commission,  which  was  trying  to 
get  appropriations  from  the  State  for  cleaning  up 
brush  and  deadfalls  from  out  of  standing  timber 
—  a  thiniT;  that  if  well  done  would  render  forest 
fires  almost  harmless. 

He  was  getting  a  standing  and  a  recognition 
which  now  made  that  law  school  diploma  —  the 
thing  that  he  had  once  regarded  as  the  portal  of 
the  world  —  look  cheap  and  little. 

But,  as  he  sat  late  that  night  working  on  his 
forestry  calculations,  the  roadway  of  his  dreams 
fell  away  from  under  him.  The  high  colour  of 
his  ambitions  faded  to  a  grey  wall  that  stood  be- 
fore him  and  across  the  grey  wall  in  letters  of 
black  he  could  only  see  the  word  —  guilty. 

What  was  it  all  worth?  Why  work?  Why 
fight?  Why  dream?  Why  anything?  when  at 
the  end  and  the  beginning  of  all  things  there  stood 
that  wall  with  the  word  written  across  it. 
Guilty  —  guilty  as  Rafe  Gadbeau.  And  Ruth 
Lansing  — ! 

A  flash  of  sudden  insight  caught  him  and  held 
him  in  its  glaring  light.  He  had  been  doing  all 
this  work.  He  had  built  this  home.  He  had 
fought  the  roughest  timber-jacks  and  the  high  hills 
and  the  raging  winter  for  money.  He  had 
dreamt  and  laboured  on  his  dreams  and  built  them 
higher.     Why?     For  Ruth  Lansing. 


322  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 


*   i 


Vv  i 


He  had  fought  the  thought  of  her.  He  had 
put  her  out  of  his  mind.  He  had  said  that  she 
had  failed  him  in  need.  He  had  even,  in  the 
blackest  time  of  the  night,  called  her  liar.  He 
had  forgotten  her,  he  said. 

Now  he  knew  that  not  for  an  instant  had  she 
been  out  of  his  mind.  Every  stroke  of  work  had 
been  for  her.  She  had  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
high  path  of  every  struggling  dream. 

Between  him  and  her  now  rose  that  grey  wall 
with  the  one  word  written  on  it.  Was  that  what 
they  had  meant  that  day  there  in  the  court,  she 
and  the  Bishop?  Had  they  not  lied,  after  all? 
Was  there  some  sort  of  uncanny  truth  or  Insight 
or  hidden  justice  in  that  secret  confessional  of 
theirs  that  revealed  the  deep,  the  real,  the  ever- 
lasting truth,  while  it  hid  the  momentary,  acci- 
dental truth  of  mere  words?  In  effect,  they  had 
said  that  he  was  guilty.     And  he  itas  guilty ! 

What  was  that  the  Bishop  had  said  when  he 
had  asked  for  truth  that  day  on  the  railroad  line '' 
"  Sooner  or  later  we  have  to  learn  that  there  is 
something  bigger  than  we  are."  Was  this  what 
it  meant  ?  Was  this  the  thing  bigger  than  he  was  ? 
The  thing  that  had  seen  through  him,  had  looked 
down  into  his  heart,  had  measured  him;  was  this 
the  thing  that  was  bigger  than  he? 

He  was  whirled  about  in  a  confusing,  distort- 
ing maze  of  imagination,  misinformation,  and 
some  unreadable  facts. 


i      ri 

II 

t 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     323 

He  was  a  guilty  man.  Ruth  Lansing  knew  that 
he  was  guilty.  That  was  why  she  had  acted  as 
she  had.  He  would  go  to  her.  He  would  —  I 
But  what  was  the  use?  She  would  not  talk  to 
him  about  this.  She  would  merely  deny,  as  she 
had  done  before,  that  she  knew  anything  at  all. 
What  could  he  do?  Where  could  he  turn? 
They,  he  and  Ruth,  could  never  speak  of  that 
thing.  They  could  never  come  to  any  understand- 
ing of  anything.  This  thing,  this  wall  —  with 
that  word  written  on  it  —  would  stand  between 
them  forever;  this  wall  of  guilt  and  the  secret  that 
was  sealed  behind  her  lips.  Certainly  this  was  the 
thing  that  was  stronger  than  he.  There  was  no 
answer.     There  was  no  way  out. 

Guilty!     Guilty  as  Rafe  Gadbeau! 

But  Rafe  Gadbeau  had  found  a  way  out.  He 
was  not  guilty  any  more.  Cynthe  had  said  so. 
He  had  gotten  past  that  wall  of  guilt  somehow. 
He  had  merely  come  through  the  fire  and  thrown 
himself  at  a  man's  feet  and  had  his  guilt  wiped 
away.  What  was  there  in  that  uncanny  thing  they 
called  confession,  that  a  man,  guilty,  guilty  as  — 
as  Rafe  Gadbeau,  could  come  to  another  man, 
and,  by  the  saying  of  a  few  words,  turn  over  and 
face  death  feeling  that  his  guilt  was  wiped  away  ? 

It  was  a  delusion,  of  course.  The  saying  of 
words  could  never  wipe  away  Rafe  Gadbeau's 
guilt,  any  more  than  it  could  take  away  this  guilt 
from  Jeffrey  Whiting.     It  was  a  delusion,  yes. 


I -II'    i 


324  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

But  Rafe  Gadbeau  believed  it!     Cynthe  believed 
itl     And  Cynthe  was  no  fool.     Ruth  believed  it! 

It  was  a  delusion,  yes.  But —  IFhat  a  de- 
lusion! What  a  magnificent,  soul-stirring  delu- 
sion! A  delusion  that  could  lift  Rafe  Gadbeau 
out  of  the  misery  of  his  guilt,  that  carried  the 
souls  of  millions  of  guilty  people  through  all  the 
world  up  out  of  the  depths  of  their  crimes  to  a 
confidence  of  relief  and  freedom! 

Then  the  soul  of  Jeffrey  Whiting  went  down 
into  the  abyss  of  despairing  loneliness.  It  trod 
the  dark  ways  in  which  there  was  no  guidance. 
It  did  not  look  up,  for  it  knew  not  to  whom  or 
to  what  it  might  appeal.  It  travelled  an  endless 
round  of  memory,  from  cause  to  effect  and  back 
again  to  cause,  looking  for  the  single  act,  or 
thought,  that  must  have  been  the  starting  point, 
that  must  have  held  the  germ  of  his  guilt. 

Somewhere  there  must  have  been  a  beginning. 
He  knew  that  he  was  not  in  any  particular  a  dif- 
ferent person,  capable  of  anything  different,  likely 
to  anything  different,  that  morning  on  Bald  Moun- 
tain from  what  he  had  been  on  any  other  morn- 
ing since  he  had  become  a  man.  There  was  never 
a  time,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  when  he  would  not 
have  been  ready  to  do  the  thing  which  he  was 
ready  to  do  that  morning  —  given  the  circum- 
stances. Nor  had  he  changed  in  any  way  since 
that  morning.  What  had  been  essentially  his  act, 
his  thought,  a  part  of  him,  that  morning  was  just 


:i 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     325 

as  much  a  part  of  him,  was  himself,  in  fact,  this 
minute.  There  was  no  thing  in  the  succession 
of  incidents  to  which  he  could  point  and  say: 
That  was  not  I  who  did  that:  I  did  not  mean 
that:  I  am  sorry  I  did  that.  Nor  would  there 
ever  be  a  time  when  he  could  say  any  of  these 
things.  It  seemed  that  he  must  always  have  been 
guilty  of  that  thing;  that  in  all  his  life  to  come 
he  must  always  be  guilty  of  it.  There  had  been 
no  change  in  him  to  make  him  capable  of  it,  to 
make  him  wish  it;  there  had  been  no  later  change 
in  him  by  which  he  would  undo  it.  It  seemed 
that  his  guilt  was  something  which  must  have  be- 
gun away  back  in  the  formation  of  his  character, 
and  which  would  persist  as  long  as  he  was  the 
being  that  he  was.  There  was  no  beginning  of 
it.     There  was  no  way  that  it  might  ever  end. 

And,  now  that  he  remembered,  Ruth  Lansing 
had  seen  that  guilt,  too.  She  had  seen  it  in  his 
eyes  before  ever  the  thought  had  taken  shape  in 
his  mind. 

What  had  she  seen  ?  What  was  that  thing  writ- 
ten so  clear  in  his  eyes  that  she  could  read  and 
tell  him  of  it  that  day  on  the  road  from  French 
Village? 

He  would  go  to  her  and  ask  her.  She  should 
tell  him  what  was  that  thing  she  had  seen.  He 
would  make  her  tell.  He  would  have  it  from 
her! 

But,  no.     Where  was  the  use  ?     It  would  only 


Si  k 


r 


I-; 


i'li 


I    ^¥ 


!    I 


^1 


ft 


■I' 


5fi 


!l»k:'i  ! 


;  I 


mmm 


326  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

bring  them  to  that  whole,  Impossible,  bewildering 
business  of  the  confessional.  And  he  did  not 
want  to  hear  any  more  of  that.  His  heart  was 
sick  of  it.  It  had  made  him  suffer  enough.  And 
he  did  not  doubt  now  that  Ruth  had  suffered 
equally,  or  maybe  more,  from  it. 

Where  could  he  go?  He  must  tell  this  thing. 
He  must  talk  of  it  to  some  one!  That  resist- 
less, irrepressible  impulse  for  confession,  that  call 
of  the  lone  human  soul  for  confidence,  was  upon 
him.  He  must  find  some  other  soul  to  share  with 
him  the  burden  of  this  conviction.  He  must  find 
some  one  who  would  understand  and  to  whom  he 
could  speak. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  was  not  subtle.  He  could  not 
have  analysed  what  this  craving  meant.  He  only 
knew  that  it  was  very  real,  that  his  soul  was  stag- 
gering alone  and  blind  under  the  weight  of  this 
thing. 

There  was  one  man  who  would  understand. 
The  man  who  had  looked  upon  the  faces  of  life 
and  death  these  many  years,  the  man  of  strange 
comings  and  goings,  the  Bishop  who  had  set  him 
on  the  way  of  all  this,  and  who  from  what  he  had 
said  in  his  house  in  Alden,  that  day  so  long  ago 
when  all  this  began,  may  have  foreseen  this  very 
thing,  the  man  who  had  heard  Rafe  Gadbeau  cry 
out  his  guilt;  that  man  would  understand.  He 
would  go  to  him. 

He  wrote  a  note  which  his  mother  would  find  in 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     327 

the  morning,  and  slipping  quietly  out  of  the 
house  he  saddled  his  horse  for  the  ride  to  Low- 
ville. 

"  I  came  because  I  had  to  come,"  Jeffrey  began, 
when  the  Bishop  had  seated  him.  "  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  come  to  you.  I  know  you  cannot 
do  anything.  There  is  nothing  for  any  one  to  do. 
But  I  had  to  tell  some  one.  I  had  to  say  it  to 
somebody. 

"  I  sat  that  day  in  the  courtroom,"  he  went  on 
as  the  Bishop  waited,  "  and  thought  that  the  whole 
world  was  against  me.  It  seemed  that  everybody 
was  determined  to  make  me  guilty  —  even  you, 
even  Ruth.  And  I  was  innocent.  I  had  done 
nothing.  I  was  bitter  and  desperate  with  the  idea 
that  everybody  was  trying  to  make  me  out  guilty, 
when  I  was  innocent.  I  had  done  nothing.  I  had 
not  killed  a  man.  I  told  the  men  there  on  the 
mountain  that  I  was  innocent  and  they  would  not 
believe  me.  Ruth  and  you  knew  in  your  hearts 
that  I  had  not  done  the  thing,  but  you  would  not 
say  a  word  for  me,  an  innocent  man. 

"  It  was  that  as  much  as  anything,  that  feeling 
that  the  whole  world  wanted  to  condemn  me  know- 
ing that  I  was  innocent,  that  drove  me  on  to  the 
wild  attack  upon  the  railroad.  I  was  fighting 
back,  fighting  back  against  everybody. 

"And  —  this  is  what  I  came  to  say  —  all  the 
time  I  was  guilty  —  guilty :  guilty  as  Rafe  Gad- 
beau!" 


'f^  (^ 


^i| 


ip 


i  K 


1 


i 


328  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  I  am  not  sure  I  understand,"  said  the  Bishop 
slowly,  as  Jeffrey  stopped. 

*'  Oh,  there's  nothing  to  understand.  It  is  just 
as  I  say.  I  was  guilty  of  that  man's  death  before 
I  saw  him  at  all  that  morning.  I  was  guilty  of  it 
that  instant  when  Rafe  Gadbeau  fired.  I  am 
guilty  now.  I  will  always  be  guilty.  Rafe  Gad- 
beau  could  say  a  few  words  to  you  and  turn  over 
into  the  next  world,  free.  I  cannot,"  he  ended, 
with  a  sort  of  grim  finality  as  though  he  saw  again 
before  him  that  wall  against  which  he  had  come 
the  night  before. 

"  You  mean  — "  the  Bishop  began  slowly. 
Then  he  asked  suddenly,  "  What  brought  your 
mind  to  this  view  of  the  matter?  " 

"  A  girl,"  said  Jeffrey,  "  the  girl  that  saved  me; 
that  French  girl  that  loved  Rafe  Gadbeau.  She 
showed  me." 

Ah,  thought  the  Bishop,  Cynthe  has  been  reliev- 
ing her  mind  with  some  plain  speaking.  But  he 
did  not  feel  at  all  easy.  He  knew  better  than  to 
treat  the  matter  lightly.  Jeffrey  Whiting  was  not 
a  boy  to  be  laughed  out  of  a  morbid  notion,  or  to 
be  told  to  grow  older  and  forget  the  thing.  His 
was  a  man's  soul,  standing  in  the  dark,  grappling 
with  a  thing  with  which  it  could  not  cope.  The 
wrong  word  here  might  mar  his  whole  life.  Here 
was  no  place  for  softening  away  the  realities  with 
reasoning.  The  man's  soul  demanded  a  man's 
straight  answer. 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     329 

"  Before  you  could  be  guilty,"  said  the  Bishop 
decisively,  "  you  must  have  injured  some  one  by 
your  thought,  your  intention.  Whom  did  you  in- 
jure?" 

Jeffrey  Whiting  leaped  at  the  train  of  thought, 
to  follow  it  out  from  the  maze  which  his  mind 
had  been  treading.  Here  was  the  answer.  This 
would  clear  the  way.     Whom  had  he  injured? 

Well,  whom  had  he  injured?  fVho  had  been 
hurt  by  his  thought,  his  wish,  to  kill  a  man?  Had 
it  hurt  the  man,  Samuel  Rogers?  No.  He  was 
none  the  worse  of  it. 

Had  it  hurt  Rafe  Gadbeau?  No.  He  did  not 
enter  into  this  at  all. 

Had  it  hurt  Jeffrey  Whiting,  himself?  Not  till 
yesterday;  and  not  in  the  way  meant. 

Whom,  then?  And  if  it  had  hurt  nobody,  then 
—  then  why  all  this — ?  Jeffrey  Whiting  rose 
from  his  chair  as  though  to  go.  He  did  not  look 
at  the  Bishop.  He  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  un- 
seeing upon  the  floor,  asking: 

Whom? 

Suddenly,  from  within,  just  barely  audible 
through  his  lips  there  came  the  answer;  a  single 
word: 

"God/" 

"  Your  business  is  with  Him,  then^"  said  the 
Bishop,  rising  with  what  almost  seemed  brusque- 
ness.     "  You  wanted  to  see  Him." 

"  But  —  but,"    Jeffrey    Whiting    hesitated    to 


330    THE  SMKPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

argue,  "  men  come  to  you,  to  confess.  Rafe  Gad- 
beau— 1" 

"  No,"  said  the  Bishop  quickly,  "  you  are 
wrong.  Men  come  to  me  to  confession.  They 
come  to  confess  to  God." 

He  took  the  young  man's  hand,  saying: 

"  I  will  not  say  another  word.  You  have  found 
your  own  answer.  You  would  not  understand  bet- 
ter if  I  talked  forever.  Find  God,  and  tell  Him, 
what  you  have  told  me." 

In  the  night  Jeffrey  Whiting  rode  back  up  the 
long  way  to  the  hills  and  home.  He  was  still  be- 
wildered, disappointed,  and  a  little  resentful  of  the 
Bishop's  brief  manners  with  him.  He  had  gone 
looking  for  sympathy,  understanding,  help.  And 
he  had  been  told  to  find  God. 

Find  God?  How  did  men  go  about  to  find 
God?  Wasn't  all  the  world  continually  on  the 
lookout  for  God,  and  who  ever  found  Him?  Did 
the  preachers  find  Him?  Did  the  priests  find 
Him?  And  if  they  did,  what  did  they  say  to 
Him  ?  Did  people  who  were  sick,  and  people  who 
said  God  had  answered  their  prayers  and  punished 
their  enemies  for  them;  did  they  find  God? 

Did  they  find  Him  when  they  prayed?  Did 
they  find  Him  when  they  were  in  trouble?  What 
did  the  Bishop  mean?  Find  God?  He  must 
have  meant  something?  How  did  the  Bishop 
himself  find  God?     Was  there  some  word,  some 


ll^fSIS; 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     331 

key,  some  hidden  portal  by  which  men  found  God  ? 
Was  God  to  be  found  here  on  the  hills,  in  the 
night,  in  the  open? 

Godl  God!  his  soul  cried  incoherently,  how 
can  I  come,  how  can  I  find !  A  wordless,  baffled, 
impotent  cry,  that  reached  nowhere. 

The  Bishop  had  once  said  it.  We  get  no  an- 
swer. 

Then  the  sense  of  his  guilt,  unending,  inerad- 
icable guilt,  swept  down  upon  him  again  and 
beat  him  and  flattened  him  and  buffeted  him.  It 
left  him  shaken  and  beaten.  He  was  not  able  to 
face  this  thing.  It  was  too  big  for  him.  He  was 
after  all  only  a  boy,  a  lost  boy,  travelling  alone  in 
the  dark,  under  the  unconcerned  stars.  He  had 
been  caught  and  crushed  between  forces  and  pas- 
sions that  were  too  much  for  him.  He  was  little 
and  these  things  were  very  great. 

Unconsciously  the  heart  within  him,  the  child 
heart  that  somehow  lives  ever  in  every  man,  be- 
gan to  speak,  to  speak,  without  knowing  it,  direct 
to  God. 

It  was  not  a  prayer.  It  was  not  a  plea.  It  was 
not  an  excuse.  It  was  the  simple  unfolding  of  the 
heart  of  a  child  to  the  Father  who  made  it.  The 
heart  was  bruised.  A  weight  was  crushing  it.  It 
could  not  lift  itself.  That  was  all ;  the  cry  of  help- 
lessness complete,  of  dependence  utter  and  unrea- 
soning. 


m- 1'^ 


I:: 


■I   , 


if'l 


% 

ll 

n 
* 

332     THE  SHEPHFRD  OF  THE  NORTH 

Suddenly  the  man  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
the  stars,  blinking  at  him  through  the  starting 
tears. 

Was  that  God?  Had  some  one  spoken? 
Where  was  the  load  that  had  lain  upon  him  all 
these  weary  hours? 

He  stopped  his  horse  and  looked  about  him, 
breathing  in  ^  eat,  free,  hungry  breaths  of  God's 
air  about  him.  For  it  ztas  God's  air.  That  was 
the  wonder  of  it.  The  world  was  God's !  And  it 
was  new  made  for  him  to  live  in ! 

He  breathed  his  thanks,  a  breath  and  a  prayer 
of  thanks,  as  simple  and  unreasoning,  unquestion- 
ing, as  had  been  the  unfolding  of  his  heart.  He 
had  been  bound :  he  was  free ! 

Then  his  horse  went  flying  up  the  hill  road, 
beating  a  tattoo  of  new  life  upon  the  soft,  breath- 
ing air  of  the  spring  night. 

With  the  inconsequence  of  all  of  us  children 
when  God  has  lifted  the  stone  from  our  hearts, 
Jeffrey  had  already  left  everything  of  the  last  thir- 
ty-six hours  behind  him  as  completely  as  if  he  had 
never  lived  through  those  hours.  (That  He  lets 
us  forget  so  easily,  shows  that  He  is  the  Royal 
God  in  very  deed.) 

Before  the  sun  was  well  up  in  the  morning 
Jeffrey  was  on  his  way  to  French  Village,  to  look 
out  the  cabin  where  Ruth  had  cared  for  old  Rob- 
bideau  Laclair,  and  had  shamed  the  lazy  men  into 
fixing  that  roof. 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     333 

What  he  had  heard  the  other  day  from  Cynthe 
was  by  no  means  all  that  he  had  heard  of  the 
doings  of  Ruth  during  the  last  seven  months. 
For  the  F>ench  people  had  taken  her  to  their 
hearts  and  had  made  of  her  a  wonderful  new  kind 
of  saint.  They  had  seen  her  come  to  them  out  of 
the  fire.  They  had  heard  of  her  silence  at  the 
trial  of  the  man  she  loved.  They  had  seen  her 
devoting  herself  with  a  careless  fearlessness  to 
their  loved  ones  in  the  time  when  the  black  diph- 
theria had  frightened  the  wits  out  of  the  best  of 
women.  All  the  while  they  knew  that  she  was  not 
happy.  And  they  had  explained  fully  to  the 
countryside  just  what  was  their  opinion  of  the 
whole  matter. 

Jeffrey,  remembering  these  things,  and  suddenly 
understanding  many  things  that  had  been  hidden 
from  him,  was  very  humble  as  he  wondered  what 
he  could  say  to  Ruth. 

At  the  outskirts  of  the  little  unpainted  village  he 
met  Cynthe. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  without  preface. 

Cynthe  looked  at  him  curiously,  a  long,  search- 
ing look,  and  was  amazed  at  the  change  she 
saw. 

Here  was  not  the  heady,  thoughtless  boy  to 
whom  she  had  talked  the  other  day.  Here  was  a 
man,  a  thinking  man,  a  man  who  had  suffered  and 
had  learned  some  things  out  of  unknown  places  of 
his  heart. 


334      THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THI    NOR  11 1 

I  hurt  him,  she  thought.  Maybe  I  said  too 
much.     But  I  am  not  sorry.     Non. 

"  The  last  house,"  she  answered,  "  by  the  crook 
of  the  lake  there.  Slie  will  be  glad,"  she  re- 
marked simply,  and  turned  on  her  way. 

Jeffrey  rode  on,  thanking  the  little  Trench  ^\v\ 
heartily  for  the  word  that  she  had  thought  to  add. 
It  was  a  warrant,  it  seemed,  of  forgiveness  —  and 
of  all  things. 

Old  Robbideau  Ladair  and  his  crippled  wife 
Philomena  sat  in  the  sun  by  the  side  of  the  house 
watching  Ruth,  who  with  strong  brown  arms  bare 
above  the  elbow  was  working  away  contentedly 
in  their  little  patch  of  garden.  They  nudged  each 
other  as  Jeffrey  rode  up  and  left  his  horse,  but 
they  made  no  sign  to  Ruth. 

So  Jeffrey  stepping  lightly  on  the  soft  new  earth 
came  to  her  unseen  and  unheard.  He  took  the 
hoe  from  her  hand  as  she  turned  to  face  him.  Up 
to  that  moment  Jeffrey  had  not  known  what  he 
was  to  say  to  her.  What  was  there  to  say?  But 
as  he  looked  into  her  startled,  pain-clouded  eyes 
he  found  himself  saying: 

*'  I  hurt  God  once,  very  much.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  say  to  Him.  Last  night  He  taught  me 
what  to  say.  I  hurt  you  once,  very  much.  Will 
you  tell  me  what  to  say  to  you,  Ruth?  " 

It  was  a  surprising,  disconcerting  greeting. 
But  Ruth  quickly  understood.  There  was  no  ir- 
reverence in  it,  only  a  man's  Rtnmbling,  whole- 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     335 

hearted  confession.  It  was  a  ptea  that  she  had  no 
will  to  deny.  The  quick,  warm  tears  of  joy  came 
welling  to  her  eyes  as  she  silently  took  his  hand 
and  led  him  out  of  the  little  garden  and  to  where 
his  horse  stood. 

There,  she  leaning  against  his  horse,  her  fingers 
slipping  softly  through  the  big  bay's  mane,  Jeffrey 
standing  stif{  and  anxious  before  her,  with  the  glad 
morning  and  the  high  hills  and  all  French  Village 
observing  them  with  kindly  eyes,  these  two  faced 
their  question. 

But  after  all  there  was  no  question.  For 
when  Jeffrey  had  told  all,  down  to  that  moment  in 
the  dark  road  when  he  had  found  God  in  his  heart, 
Ruth,  with  that  instinct  of  mothering  tenderness 
that  is  born  in  every  woman,  said : 

"  Poor  boy,  you  have  suffered  too  much  1  " 

"  What  I  suffered  was  that  I  made  for  myself," 
he  said  thickly.  "  Cynthe  Cardinal  told  me  what 
a  fool  I  was." 

"What  did  Cynthe  tell  you?" 

"  She  told  me  that  you  loved  me." 

"  Did  you  need  to  be  told  that,  Jeffrey?  "  said 
the  girl  very  quietly. 

"  Yes,  it  seems  so.  I'd  known  your  little  white 
soul  ever  since  you  were  a  baby.  I  knew  that  in 
all  your  life  you'd  never  had  a  thought  that  was 
not  the  best,  the  truest,  the  loyalist  for  me.  I 
knew  that  there  was  never  a  time  when  you 
wouldn't  have  given  everything,  even  life,  for  me. 


m.n 


J  ; 


336    THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

I  knew  it  that  day  in  the  Bishop's  house.  I  knew 
it  that  morning  when  you  came  to  me  in  the  sugar 
cabin. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  all  that,"  he  went  on  bitterly. 
"  I  knew  you  loved  me,  and  I  knew  what  a  love  it 
was.  I  knew  it.  And  yet  that  day  —  that  day 
in  the  courtroom,  the  only  thing  I  could  do  was 
to  call  you  liar  1  " 

She  put  up  her  hands  with  an  appeal  to  stop  him, 
but  he  went  on  doggedly. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  That  was  all  I  could  think  of. 
I  threw  it  at  you  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  I  saw 
you  quiver  and  shrink,  as  though  I  had  struck  you. 
And  even  that  »lght  wasn't  enough  for  me.  I 
kept  on  saying  it,  when  I  knew  in  my  heart  it 
wasn't  so.  I  couldn't  help  but  know  it.  I  knew 
you.  But  I  kept  on  telling  myself  that  you  lied; 
kept  on  till  yesterday.  I  wasn't  big  enough.  I 
wasn't  man  enough  to  see  that  you  were  just  fac- 
ing something  that  was  bigger  than  both  of  us  — 
something  that  was  bigger  and  truer  than  words 
—  that  there  was  no  way  out  for  you  but  to  do 
what  you  did." 

•'  Jeffrey,  dear,"  the  girl  hurried  to  say,  "  you 
know  that's  a  thing  we  can't  speak  about  — " 

"  Yes,  we  can,  now.  I  know  and  I  understand. 
You  needn't  say  anything.     I  understand. 

"  And  I  understand  a  lot  more,"  he  began 
again.  "  It  took  that  little  French  girl  to  tell  me 
what  was  the  truth.     I  know  it  now.     There  was 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     337 

a  deeper,  a  truer  truth  under  everything.  That 
was  why  you  had  to  do  as  you  did.  That's  why 
everything  was  so.  I  wasn't  innocent.  Things 
don't  happen  as  those  things  did.  They  work  out, 
because  they  have  to." 

The  girl  was  watching  him  with  fright  and 
wonder  in  her  eyes.  What  was  he  going  to  say? 
But  she  let  him  go  on. 

"  No,  I  wasn't  innocent,"  he  said,  as  though  to 
himself  now.  "  I  fooled  myself  into  thinking  that 
I  was.  But  I  was  not.  I  meant  to  kill  a  man. 
I  had  meant  to  for  a  long  time.  Nothing  but 
Rafe  Gadbeau's  quickness  prevented  me.  No,  I 
wasn't  innocent.  I  was  guilty  in  my  heart.  I  was 
a  murderer.  I  was  guilty.  I  was  as  guilty  as 
Rafe  Gadbeaul     As  guilty  as  Ca — I  " 

The  girl  had  suddenly  sprung  forward  and 
thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck.  She  caught 
the  word  that  was  on  his  lips  and  stopped  it  with 
a  kiss,  a  kiss  that  dared  the  onlooking  world  to  say 
what  he  had  been  going  to  say. 

"You  shall  not  say  that!"  she  panted.  "I 
will  not  let  you  say  it!  Nobody  shall  say  itl  I 
defy  the  whole  world  to  say  it !  " 

"  But  it's  —  it's  true,"  said  the  boy  brokenly  as 
he  held  her. 

"  It  is  not  true  I  Never  I  Nothing's  true,  only 
the  truth  that  God  has  hidden  in  His  heart! 
And  that  is  hidden!  How  can  we  say?  How 
dare  we  say  what  we  would  have  done,  when  we 


i^'iiii  i 


1 1 '  V 


it: 

II; 

i  i   ■ 


338  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

didn't  do  it?  How  do  we  know  what's  really  in 
our  hearts?  Don't  you  see,  Jeffrey  boy,  we  can- 
not say  things  like  that!  We  don't  know!  I 
won't  let  you  say  it. 

"  And  if  you  do  say  it,"  she  argued,  "  why,  I'll 
have  to  say  it,  too." 

"You?" 

"  Yes,  I.  Do  you  remember  that  night  you 
were  in  the  sugar  cabin?  I  was  outside  looking 
through  the  chinks  at  Rafe  Gadbeau.  What  was 
I  thinking?  What  was  in  my  heart?  I'll  tell 
you.  I  was  out  there  stalking  like  a  panther.  I 
wanted  just  one  thing  out  of  all  the  world.  Just 
one  thing!  My  rifle!  To  kill  him!  I  would 
have  done  it  gladly  —  with  joy  in  my  heart!  I 
could  have  sung  while  I  was  doing  it ! 

"  Now,"  she  gasped,  *'  now,  if  you're  going  to 
say  that  thing,  why,  we'll  say  it  together  I  " 

The  big  boy,  holding  the  trembling  girl  closer 
in  his  arms,  understood  nothing  but  that  she 
wanted  to  stand  with  him,  to  put  herself  in  what- 
ever place  was  his,  to  take  that  black,  terrible 
shadow  that  had  fallen  on  him  and  wrap  it  around 
herself  too. 

"  My  poor  little  white-souled  darling,"  he  said 
through  tears  that  choked  him,  "  I  can't  take  this 
from  you!     It's  too  much,  I  can't!  " 

After  a  little  the  girl  relaxed,  tiredly,  against 
his  shoulder  and  argued  dreamily: 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do.     You'll  have  to 


% 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     339 

take  me.     And  I  don't  see  how  you  can  take  me 
any  way  but  just  as  I  am." 

Then  she  was  suddenly  conscious  that  the  world 
was  observing.  She  drew  quickly  away,  and 
Jeffrey,  still  dazed  and  shaken,  let  her  go. 

Standing,  looking  at  her  with  eyes  that  hun- 
gered and  adored,  he  began  to  speak  in  wonder  and 
self-abasement. 

"  After  all  I've  made  you  suffer  — I  " 

But  Ruth  would  have  none  of  this.  It  had  been 
nothing,  she  declared.  She  had  found  work  to 
do.  She  had  been  happy,  in  a  way.  God  had 
been  very  kind. 

At  length  Jeffrey  said :  "  Well,  I  guess  we'll 
never  have  to  misunderstand  again,  anyway,  Ruth. 
I  had  to  find  God  because  I  was  —  I  needed  Him. 
Now  I  want  to  find  Him  —  your  way." 

"  You  mean  —  you  mean  that  you  believe!  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jeffrey  slowly.  "  I  didn't  think  I 
ever  would.  I  certainly  didn't  want  to.  But  I 
do.  And  it  isn't  just  to  win  with  you,  Ruth,  or 
to  make  you  happier.  I  can't  help  it.  It's  the 
thing  the  Bishop  once  told  me  about  —  the  thing 
that's  bigger  than  I  am." 

Now  Ruth,  all  zeal  and  thankfulness,  was  for 
leading  him  forthwith  to  Father  Ponfret,  that  he 
might  begin  at  once  his  course  of  instructions 
which  she  assured  him  was  essential. 

But  Jeffrey  demurred.  He  had  been  reading 
books  all  winter,  he  said.     Though  he  admitted 


'^y, 


\h.e 


11: 


i*;! 


III  nI  ':  l¥ 


i.ih 


340     THE  SHEPHERD  OP^  THE  NORTH 

that  until  last  night  he  had  not  understood  much 
of  it.  Now  it  was  all  dear  and  easy,  thank  Goc  . 
Could  she  not  come  home,  then,  to  his  mother, 
who  was  pining  for  her  —  and  —  and  they  would 
have  all  their  lives  to  finish  the  instructions. 

On  this,  however,  Ruth  was  firm.  Here  she 
would  stay,  among  these  good  people  where  she 
had  made  for  herself  a  place  and  a  home.  He 
must  come  every  week  to  Father  Ponfret  for  his 
instructions,  like  any  other  convert.  If  on  those 
occasions  he  also  came  to  see  her,  well,  she  would, 
of  course,  be  glad  to  see  him  and  to  know  how  he 
was  progressing. 

Afterwards?  Well,  afterwards,  they  would 
see. 

And  to  this  Jeffrey  was  forced  to  agree. 

Old  Robbideau  Laclair,  when  he  heard  of  this 
arrangement,  grumbled  that  the  way  of  the  heretic 
was  indeed  made  easy  in  these  days.  But  his  wife 
Philomena,  scraping  sharply  with  her  stick,  in- 
formed him  that  if  the  good  Ruth  saw  fit  to  con- 
vert even  a  heathen  Turk  into  a  husband  for  her- 
self  she  would  no  doubt  make  a  good  job  of  it. 

So  love  came  and  went  through  the  summer, 
practically  unrebuked. 

Again  the  Bishop  came  riding  up  to  French 
Village  with  Arsene  LaComb.  But  this  time  they 
rode  in  a  jogging,  rattling  coach  that  swung  up 
over  the  new  line  of  railroad  that  came  into  the 
hills   from  Welden  Junction.     And  Arsene  was 


THAT  THEY  BE  NOT  AFRAID     341 

very  glad  of  this,  for  as  he  looked  at  his  beloved 
M'sieur  1'  Eveque  he  saw  that  he  was  not  now  the 
man  to  have  faced  the  long  road  up  over  the  hills. 
He  was  not  two,  he  was  many  years  older  and  less 
sturdy. 

The  Bishop  practised  his  French  a  little,  but 
mostly  he  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  He  was 
remembering  that  day,  nearly  two  years  ago  now, 
when  he  had  set  two  ambitious  young  souls  upon 
a  way  which  they  did  not  like.  What  a  coil  of 
good  and  bad  had  come  out  of  that  doing  of  his. 
And  again  he  wondered,  as  he  had  wondered  then, 
whether  he  had  done  right.     Who  was  to  tell? 

And  again  to-morrow  he  was  to  set  those  two 
again  upon  their  way  of  life,  for  he  was  coming  up 
to  French  Village  to  the  wedding  of  Ruth  Lansing 
to  Jeffrey  Whiting. 

Jeffrey  Whiting  knelt  by  Ruth  Lansing's  side  in 
the  little  rough-finished  sanctuary  of  the  chapel 
which  Father  Ponfret  had  somehow  managed  to 
raise  during  that  busy,  poverty-burdened  summer. 
But  Jeffrey  Whiting  saw  none  of  the  poor  make- 
shifts out  of  which  the  little  priest  had  contrived 
a  sanctuary  to  the  high  God.  He  was  back  again, 
in  the  night,  on  a  dark,  lone  road,  under  the  un- 
concerned stars,  crying  out  to  find  God.  Then 
God  had  come  to  him,  with  merciful,  healing  touch 
and  lifted  him  out  of  the  dust  and  agony  of  the 
road,  and,  finally,  had  brought  him  here,  to  this 
moment. 


j.i^. 


!i: 


342  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NORTH 

He  had  just  received  into  his  body  the  God  of 
life.  His  soul  stood  trembling  at  its  portal,  re- 
ceiving its  Guest  for  the  first  time.  He  was 
amazed  with  a  great  wonder,  for  here  was  the 
very  God  of  the  dark  night  speaking  to  him  in 
words  that  beat  upon  his  heart.  And  his  wonder 
was  that  from  this  he  should  ever  arise  and  go  on 
with  any  other  business  whatever. 

Ruth  Lansing  knelt,  adoring  and  listening  to 
the  music  of  that  choir  unseen  which  had  once 
given  her  the  call  of  life.  She  had  followed  it,  not 
always  in  the  perfect  way,  but  at  least  bravely,  un- 
questioningly.  And  it  had  brought  her  now  to  a 
holy  and  awed  happiness.  Neither  life  nor  death 
would  ever  rob  her  of  this  moment. 

Presently  they  rose  and  stood  before  the  Bishop. 
And  as  the  Shepherd  blessed  their  joined  hands  he 
prayed  for  these  two  who  were  dear  to  him,  as 
well  as  for  his  other  little  ones,  and,  as  always, 
for  those  "  other  sheep."  And  the  breathing  of 
his  prayer  was : 

That  they  be  not  afraid,  my  God,  with  any  fear; 
but  trust  long  in  Thee  and  in  each  other. 


Iii:l  ii»i 


THE    END 


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The  Little  Lady  of  the  Big  House 

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